www.whyville.net Nov 7, 2010 Weekly Issue

Senior Times Writer


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I sit down at the desk all night, insomnia swirling around in my brain. I scribble, scrawl, crumble, and repeat as I listen to the steady hum of life surrounding me. I pause in my restless reverie, opening my eyes to the things unseen -- the things in plain sight. I am then enveloped in a song, a sound that reverberates until it finally harnesses meaning -- something in which we call music.

Instantly, inspiration pounces upon me like a lion to its prey. There is endless scraping, the wondrous friction of pen against paper, only this time, it is no longer interrupted by grunts and crinkling. It goes on and on and on and on, following the traces of outlines left behind. I write and write and write my heart out, and as I write I read over what's going through my thoughts. Amazement shines upon me as I realize I was unaware I had such material and activity going on in my mind, heart, and soul.

The next night comes, and I sit down to write. I start out well, but suddenly I am overthrown by shock; I can no longer sit down and write as I always would. The creativity isn't sprouting and shouting, encouraging me to keep growing anymore. What has happened?! Have I not the gift of harnessing the magic anymore? Am I no longer who I am? All of the questions, the confusion, and puzzlement crammed together into a mysterious desperation. My voice cracks rather eerily as I murmur, "I'm lost. Utterly lost. They've changed me, haven't they?"

Who 'they' are, I am not quite sure myself. I just whispered it on very carefully, as if my words would shatter the peace and the fairyland and I would be deprived of it forever. "I need to listen to the story," I mutter, standing up and letting the chair scrape against the wooden floor. I freeze, allowing vibrations of sound enter my soul and inspire it deeply. I have found it again!

After letting the pen squeak against the leaves for hours upon hours during the inky black night, I pause and ponder. Where did the love, the inspiration . . . where did it come from? At what point did it begin to squeeze my heart out? As I go back to bed, this bothers me much. I click off the light and think. Thoughts swirl about in my poor aching head.

But then it comes, mystically embracing my brain before the brinks of failure.

It tells me the answer . . .



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