I stare at the nib and it stares right back at me. Where
are the words of wisdom when I need them to come out of me and pour on to the
paper? As if my pen has ability to think for itself, I expect my writing to
tell me what is that I seek in life. Of course, I momentarily forget that what
I write is what I think but I do so in the faith that perhaps I will discover something
new, something astonishing and more importantly something with healing powers.
What depth of knowledge can give me salvation from the destitute, desperate,
depressive, and demeaning thoughts? The answer to such rhetorical questions
are hard to find amidst the infinitude of truths, lies and everything in
between. An insurmountable mountain of difficulties lie in front of me. With my
head resting on my arm, I wait for a thought of significant value to come. Yet
none comes. I fill my lungs with as much as I can intake and then release it. A
big sigh, indeed.
Sounds of multiple instruments of Jazz and a cup of
fair-trade organic coffee attempt to lift my spirits. Tempted to fall into the
magical experience of music and the exotic taste of my beverage, I ponder about
the poor souls that may never appreciate Jazz music with coffee like I
do. Saxophone interludes the piano. Then suddenly, classical guitar bursts
itself in to ascertain its place. Feeling quite insecure, the trumpet reminds
me that it too is present. Then the presenter interrupts to tell me that the
piece was by Kenny Wheeler and it is called the "Fortune's Child". A
soul-stirring song, I must say.
I turn around to look for something to inspire. I look at
my pen again. I say, "Go on pen, write something for me. You are
free." But the pen writes exactly what I ask. I ask "Don't you have
any free will? Of course, you are an inanimate object but don't you worry for most
of us rather feel like we are inanimate, stripped out of freedom, reason and
life". Breaking these thoughts, I burst into laughter as I see Fred trying
to get to the leftover crusts from the pizza box. One being's struggle becomes
another one's laughter. Meanwhile, the radio continues to spit out one gem
after another. Is there a more blissful place than This? Is there a more
satisfying time than Now? As I realize this, a anticlimactic but a joyful
feeling sets in. I think good and subsequently feel good. Thank you, my dear
pen.
