|A way of life
| In a dark, four walled enclosure, with a small light in the corner that shines on a cluttered old school desk of
unfinished manuscripts, is the writer;the poet, in a private world that can be oh, so lonely.
His head buried in his arms, weary of the hours spent alone, surrounded only with scattered pencil shavings, jumbled rhymes on the wall that meant something at one time. An ashcan full of repeated words, and a stained coffee cup that gives you a personal feeling of loneliness.
He wants to be there when that line or two comes, to finish what could be his finest work, and to feel the relief when it does come.
He lifts his his head just in time to see the sun come up, and to feel it's warmth coming through the small window just behind him.
Rubbing his eyes, a sip of hot coffee, pencil between his fingers, and with a deep sigh, he sits back to examine the old desk that has feelings of anger, feelings of love, feelings of winning or loosing, that may not be so poignant tomorrow.
It's a world few people can understand, a world that is unglamorous, umpainted, and untouched by the world outside.
It's a way of life that makes you wonder why he chose such a lonely way of expressing, such a demand on his heart, and soul.
Is it the choosing, or is it the feeling? Is it a need that he must put feelings down on a piece of paper that no one may ever read?
What makes him sit there for hours just to get that line or two, always desperately searching?
And how can you find a personal fulfillment with a piece of paper and a worn down pencil?
With his eyes toward me that seemed to sparkle, and a wry grin, that would give you a feeling of a deep happiness, and a strong love for life, he continures to shine in his own light.
Suddenly, he drops his head, and once more he begins what could be his next masterpiece.
|Denise Schofield 1973