My fingers are poised on the keys, remembering again for the first time how thrilling the act of pressing, forming letters, words, are.
Fear enters, stemming the tide, flow. No matter how much I resist, my heart bruises easily. Me, a novice, trying to pen (an outdated, but loved term) my thoughts for the world? Yet not the entire world, perhaps a few.
I devour ink-scented pages and yearn, fear to be in their masters' place.
Why do I torment myself? Why? It would be so much easier to ignore the clarion call, to pretend that I'm pretending-- the desire is just that, and unimportant when compared to Real Life--
The answer comes when I read the endings of a hundred books*, eyes caressing the page, thrilling over and over, savoring.
Ah, so subjective.
Phrases, arranged in art form, touch and twist and stroke hidden fibers as Beethoven does, sparking a remembering of an almost-something which I can't put my finger on--
Right and good. Resonating.
So, I sit on my bed, fingers itching to fly, to discover, between endless meaningless words, phrases that catch and vibrate through me as the sounds of a rich cello, warm and deep.
I must create a symphony of words.
*http://americanbookreview.org/PDF/100_Best_Last_Lines_from_Novels.pdf (Warning: a couple of 'naughty' words)