The hour is late - much later than it should be with me sitting up at my computer. The wall clock casts its soft, dim shadow on the warm tan wall to the right of it as a miniature lamp sits on the thin bookshelf to its left. The books are in no real order, a thick pink journal with a ribbed spine, a slender and bent notebook too large for the shelf that it is on, books leaning to the right and to the left - the remains of an active day with two vibrant girls, 2 and 3 as active as 2 and 3 year olds can be. The blinds are pulled shut and gently sway to and fro with the breeze from the night air floating in with the street light peeking through like a peeping tom hiding behind the shades and sneaking a glance in when he thinks I am not looking - but I notice. As active as my mind is tonight it is difficult not to notice many things that would normally avoid my attention. The fan above me shakes as it spins at break neck speed, needlessly, and perhaps wonders when I am going to give it a rest. Soon. Patience. One of the light switches to my right and behind me is flipped up - with the light turned off for the living room, and the one next to it, for the hallway, is flipped down with the light turned off. They must be arguing and are sleeping at opposite ends of the bed tonight. The quilt on the Lazy Boy is a few inches off center to the left and closest to the stairway leading upstairs to my bedroom, it must be thinking that if I won’t go upstairs to sleep in my bed, it might as well go on without me. The couch that I am sitting on has become a lot more comfortable over time since we’ve gotten it. I recall the day that my wife saw it on Facebook for sale. I didn’t think much of it and could have done without it, and it was about 30 miles away, but she thought it was perfect. And it has become perfect, like many things have become perfect over time here at home. Like my pillow - how many times have we tried to get one that would be the right softness mixed with just the right amount of firmness? There were nights when I banished the pillow to the floor because of it’s refusal to give me a good night’s rest - but we have since then learned to compromise. I stopped hitting it and it agreed to be a little easier on me - our relationship has become... perfect - I think I can say with confidence that it is missing me right about now - Soon. Everyone who sits down to write, whether on Facebook or a blog site or in a spiral notebook-of-a-journal as I did for about 4 years wants to say something that will make a difference, whether a difference in how they are perceived or a difference in how the world around them is perceived. They want to matter, they want to count. They want to leave an impact. I want to write. I am not talking about the few scribbles and dibbles of entries that are meaningless “hi’s” and “byes”, but those entries in which the author pours himself out into the page. He reaches into his aching heart and pulls out something that he wants to matter and like an artist (self proclaimed or recognized) takes up a paintbrush to express the depths of his soul, the writer takes up the pin (or the keyboard) to express the beatings of his heart. And then. He. Waits. What will others think about what I have written? How will they respond? Will I be ignored? Will I be scoffed at? Will they “like” my writing? Will they express the purest form of a Facebook compliment and “share” my thoughts? Will what I say matter? Will it make a difference? But one thing that we all have in common - we artists - is that no matter what people say we can’t help but return to the canvas. To us, the most beautiful thing is a blank page and a pen sitting beside it filled with ink and a cushioned chair with a cup of coffee in a dark room with a lamp at the end of the desk. No sounds. No distractions. Just. Thoughts. Thoughts from our heart. For me it’s a blank page. For others its a blank canvas. For others still it’s a camera. For you it may be a piano, finely tuned. For you, over there, it perhaps it is an empty webpage waiting for you to bring it to life with code and graphics. Whatever it may be, make it beautiful. Make it count. Make it you. The minute hand has traveled to the opposite side of the clock. I do not envy the clock - its work is never done. No matter how many hours it puts into the work day, it is never allowed, not that he couldn’t or that he wouldn’t if he could, but simply he is never allowed to punch out and take a break. I take the clock down and remove the batteries for the night. Rest, Clock. You’ve earned it. I hang him back up on the wall. In the morning I will put the batteries back in you, but until then, sleep. I stare at the two feuding light switches, once companions and now not speaking to each other. Make up, you two, or I shall have to resolve this conflict for you. I pull the string to the fan and take it down to a soft gliding pace - it thanks me, I am sure. I leave the peeping tom to stare through the window fruitlessly as I will no longer be here to spy on - and alas the miniature lamp shall be put to sleep as well so that there will be nothing to be seen through the shades, still going, gently, to and fro with the night breeze. I move the quilt to the center of the chair - Not tonight, Quilt - I will take my bed tonight. I go to my perfect pillow and cover up in the blankets, ours since our wedding day - still just as pleasant as they were when they were brand new - well worth the price we paid - and I sleep.
Posted on: Sat, 22 Jun 2013 06:43:28 +0000
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