It is 10 am. I miss you all.
Note to self, this is where I feel at home.
Looking out the window I see skinny trees faintly decorated with pale green leaves spring has started to bloom. People pass by at a brisk pace staring into the sky stealing heat from the morning sun. Their hurried walk and sweater guard suggest we are still not ready to rejoice in the season's full explosion of color and warmth.
I am sitting at a table, it is slightly square, just under a rectangle,hard, deep, thick with a loved dark oak stain that paints the surface, enriches the wall and transcends my soul. A black coffee, sweet, double espresso, perfumes the air and inspires me to think and write.
Walls of words, thoughts of life, moments lived, daydreams caught, lover's woes, conquered dreams, mysterious moments, rhymes with rhythms, scribes as gods.
Parchment awaits. Quill taunts, refrains, moves forward, steady, drunk, don't lift the touch or sanctioned to eternity it will fade. Lost, cursed like the beauty of a snowflake, forgotten, never the same.
Nothing sweeter, lonelier nor less describable then the sanctum created by a scribe with parchment and a quill surrounded by dark oak stained walls, with a window to see the world and a black coffee, sweet, double espresso.
Note to self. This is where I feel at home.
