Do you ever wonder what keeps drawing you
back to the page each morning--day after day,
month after month, year after year?
Or why you return like a lost soul not knowing
who you are or where you're going, the only certainty
the pen you hold in your hand (as long as the ink lasts),
and the blank page waiting for you to fill it with words?
Maybe it's because the moment your hand touches the page,
you feel like you've come home, no longer lost or blind, and
the world you couldn't see moments ago suddenly becomes clear
waiting for you to enter.
Maybe it's because you feel like you set off on a journey
each morning, like stepping into a boat and pushing off from shore
to see what is waiting for you just around the bend, just past the curve
in the bank, just beyond the next breath.
Maybe it's because you live for these moments, for the chance
to swim into your imagination, to return to the place where you know
you can be yourself without pretense, without a mask, the place
where you can remember who you are and why you pick up a pen
and open your journal and fill a blank page with words each morning.
Posts
