Sta.sh
In the beginning, there was nothing.
A blank space. A void.
I sit quietly at a plain desk,
pencil propped up drunkenly with two tired fingers,
unable to let my language flow like electricity
through it, to my fingertips, and onto the expanse
of recorded time, of a sheet, of a book, of stress relieved.
I begin to pray to any Muse or god
in grumbles of frustration
for a spark, an idea, a beginning.
Eventually, images begin to pop up out of the walls surrounding me,
after I have truly comprehended the meaning of "staring into space;"
but before they can melt into my forehead
like a drop of water in a pool, silently shooting the water
and at once, becoming one with it,
they disappear,
and I stare as blankly as this paper lies before me.
I hear the start of an age-old routine
that has turned my house from a writing haven into a fire hazard:
I notice the crumpling of dry loose-leaf.
That was a tree rustling in the wind.
The leaves resisting the howl of winter with flamboyance
as they roll and crack like a tiny thunder,
making the ants and bees cower in fear.
I shake my head at the whoosh of a missed shot to the trash can.
That was the buzzer-beater that could have been.
With a defeated look, a man turns to face his comrades
who receive him with a coldness
rivaling the heat and sweat of a hostile court,
and the shower he will return to
to try to wash the anger away.
I feel the rattle of a lonely bottle of aspirin.
That was the toy of a young infant
whose eyes seem to outshine every other light
as he slowly but surely figures out his world on the floor
while his parents watch in loving awe.
Broken images circle in front of me like a halo,
fragments of dreams, overstating reality.
And every time, they fall to the cold floor
to join their lost friends.
As if in a trance, I hear the creaking of a drawer.
The crisp unfolding of fresh paper.
Back to work.
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