What makes a reader?
What makes a writer?
What compels anyone to the love of language?
Why do we not sing?
Why do we not play?
Why do we not paint?
What leads us to be so loyal to our craft?
There is a man who seeks new methods of relaxation, a man who can so easily slip into another man’s life. There is a man who is enthralled by the mere re-telling of high tales. A man who is quite an observer. A man who is logical (in one sense or another) and observes his plate well. A man whom rests his faith on an influence and the good faith of escape. A man who rests in the lines of paper, whether they be marked by blue or red ink.
He stood up,
With a vigor comparable to that of a bear.
In a rush, blood began to flood his veins.
They pulsated, and wound his fist back to a tightly-coiled projectile.
And eventually when the sun came to its final moment, he understood. Long after his body will rot, his pen will continue to spill ink. Long after he dies, people will continue to live. Long after humans die, things will continue to die. What could mean more than that?
The two gentlemen sat down to tea at a mahogany table in the parlor of their late mother’s home. Soft light filtered through the windows as a stream of condensation rolled off the teapot. The house (though beautiful) was approaching a time period where there was no place for it. The gentlemen sighed as the faint songs of morning birds pardoned their way through the thin glass, proving to thicken the resolve of silence between the two men. They were now becoming of age themselves.
They thought fondly of their dear mother, whom often time had prepared their father tea at this table. Who often time had sat meditated over tea whether it be in company or in solitude. This was her table. She chose it above all other surfaces the large home provided. Even now, her two beloved sons felt her with them, sitting down to tea. And so they sat, cataloging the corners of the home that no longer shimmered.
Soon this home will no longer be their mother’s house. Soon, there will be no corners in which to find a shimmer. Soon every piece of furniture will be removed, including the mahogany table.
The gentlemen rose and pushed in their chairs for the last time. They smiled at one another, tightened their belts and pulled their coats over their shoulders. They reached for their hats and locked the door behind them. As they reached the sidewalk, they turned their eyes to the edifice one last time and smiled to the skies.
One man said to the other: “I can only hope our children will miss us just as much.”
Take a moment. Hug your parents/guardians. You never know when it will be too late!