It’s been a while since I’ve stretched my brain. I hate the awkwardness of starting. Ideas, grammar, rhythm all swirl in the distance distracting my desire to just write. I have no purpose, like someone who trains for an event they’ll never attempt, I write.

My thoughts are stiff. The process is familiar, like the runner who remembers the “stitch” that comes and goes with time. The rhythm is similar, getting lost in the pace, that’s the beauty.

Once these “old bones” get loosened you never know what’ll come of it. Could be hypocrisy revealed or love hidden in plain sight. Either way it takes my mind off the aches and pains of knowing there’s never a “last hurrah”, there’s only the idea that never got written.

So I mine the imagination for that one nugget of truth that’s universal. This is what keeps my arthritic brain from fusing into some angry rant that rests in dust. Or worse, ceases in rust. The thought of my imagination being medicated into oblivion, or trapped within a blank page is frightening. So the legend will keep me digging and breathing.

It’s not fame, nor trilogies, not even dollars that keep my knuckles cracked. It’s the synergy of my emotions colliding with my intellect that lift my pen. The familiarity of hope never loses it luster as long as my minds wide open.

This is how nothing becomes something and everything becomes one idea away. Possibilities revealed within the white noise reverberating off blank lines of desire. Nothing can be beautiful.

So I’ll end with the beginning; as this is a fitting plot. The snake swallowed it’s tail to remind us that ancient wisdom and a newborns cry are the same inspirations, it’s just where we are in life that determines wether we hear the beauty of each.


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