If I pick my black ink pen, my violet color Paperchase notebook and stare upon the wall, will my mind liberate my thoughts on a piece of paper? Will my contemplations push my right hand to write down ideas that were never put forth?
On a sunny afternoon, I sat down and held my pen and notebook anyway. The four-cornered walls surrounding me rather looked dull flushing the same plain color – white, almost yellow. I believe they call it dirty white. Although these walls of mine weren’t dirty, they’re rather clean and lonely.
I thought maybe I should delight in the pampering comforts brought forth by my beige, velvety chaise longue, as it almost fondled and hugged me to sleep. Perhaps, so I may know what to write, I should start by describing these momentary feelings of mine. Then maybe I’d be able to perceive what best ideas I can possibly note down.
Today my hands are itching to write and my mind is chasing thoughts after thoughts.
Today I will write the best poetry ever written, but these walls were hesitant. I stared anyway.
Today I will write what literature concedes as promising, but my right hand seemed frozen and my pen remained motionless with it.
Today I want to write something that would satisfy what thoughts my mind is ferreting on, but the extravagantly bundled pieces of paper facing me remained empty with words. Its lines are waiting to sit the letters like a bench under a shed.
Today I wish to write, but if these thoughts of mine are too lazy to line up then I can wait until later when stiffed hands turn loose and lonely walls could speak.
For now, I’d put my pen’s cap back on and close my notebook. I’d walk away and clear my mind and save this itch to write for later. And so I did.
But you and I know, we know that it is not so…
