They write and create,
and doodle and devise,
because that is what they do.
They cannot separate that aspect of themselves anymore than a cloud can separate itself from the water and ice that make it a cloud.
Why it is a part of them,
and for what purpose,
is the ghost within them,
glimpsed only from the corners of their minds.
And the impression that remains is a source of frustration,
a vapor of stress,
and the tendrils of pain.
But it is through these things that they arrive at the wonder,
the joy,
and the intensity of creativity.
This is how they've amassed volumes of notebooks,
why they've spent endless hours deep within their pages,
and learned to live within the burning sphere of, "but for what purpose?"
The thoughts and "thinkerings" that flow from their minds,
and then captured in their ever opening-and-closing notebooks,
is who they are.
For them to do otherwise would be to live in a cell filled with a thousand pens,
but not a single notebook.
Dedicated to my Notebook Brother.
© Copyright 2009 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.
