Crossroads

I write this curious as to whether anyone will actually read it, and if they do, what do they think? And then I ask myself why do I write this? I think and I think, and I really can find no definitive answer. This blinking black cursor used intimidate me into thinking that what flows from my brain down through my arms and into my finger tips will all be rubbish, will never be good enough. However I guess my thought process has changed quite a bit in these last few melancholic months.

I used to sit in my room, rapt in the middle of a crossroads trying to figure out where I should go next.

Standing in the center of the road straight in front of me is a defeated old man, bent with age and years of hard work, he is dressed in work boots, his hands are calloused and his eyes are devoid of emotion. The right path is lined with beautiful works of art; I somehow know that they are expertly painted by my own hand. Glimpses of what could be. The path behind me is dark and lined with tree limbs that look like reaching fingers which are scattered with dark birds that take flight as the wind whistles throughout the crooked foliage. That is where I had come from, and that is where I am trying desperately not to return to.

The trail on to my left is actually a hall with magnificent high ceilings full of words that float silently in the air and I feel compelled to see what is down there. My feet move a little apprehensively for I am scared to embrace all of these words, in fear of failing to use them correctly. But then a funny thing happens, my heart begins to beat as it hasn’t beat since I can’t remember when. It beats with happiness and each step that I take becomes sure and confident. And when my feet stop moving and I’m at the end of the hall; before me sits a great oak desk and chair that is tucked underneath it neatly. In the center of the desk lies a stack of paper, beside it, an inkwell and fountain pen. I slide out the chair, sit down and open the little jar. Picking up the pen I dip it into the jet black ink. Holding it over the plain paper, that question arises inside of my head once more. Why do I write this? My newfound courage falters for a moment. However this time I have an answer and I smile, I write this because I must, I write this because I love to write, I write this because the sound of my pencil scribbling in my note book is soothing. I take a deep breath and bend over the paper and I write this.

Once upon a time...

J.

Photo Credit