The solitude of writing: a vignette
I put pen to paper, scratching furiously in blue ink lines, smudging, crossing, looping.
I pause to look out the window where I see one child on a bicycle, another bouncing a ball.
A door slams and I go back to the words, legions of them in thumbed, curling pages, each page embossing the next.
I hear laughter from the lounge and want to shut it out, fall into my own my silent world, creep between the cold, thin sheets.
Yet I am torn: I also want to share in that laughter, to close the notebook to which my hand is glued.
All the while my hand keeps racing – ideas, thoughts, remembrances colliding in indigo.
Copyright © 2009 Dejan Djurdjevic