ink for thought: 08.09

Wednesday, 5 August 2009

in the garden

once again the writer ponders.
once again he contemplates late into the when grasping for the how with which to form the why that is all that is.

clock face solemn, hands in clasped as if in reverent prayer, a devout acolyte pronouncing a salaam for the new day, a silent greeting for new beginnings of old tales.

the writer, head bowed in awe of the moment, eyes closed to better see the inner developing of ideas, the coming to fruition of hidden thoughts, the quiet murmurings of the unknown growing in unseen places, begins.

he carefully plucks a fully ripened concept. one moment casting an expert eye for the signs of potency found deep within, the next shaking it, to test for fullness and robustness. he sheds the skin of aimless chatter to make more readily available the rich fruit of cogitation beneath the surface.

in this fruit he sees deliberation and debate, he sees received knowledge tested and new ground broken, he sees fresh life breathed into jaded dreamers and walls broken down in archaic minds. he meditates before this fruit of reflection, the ripened seed of revolution and he breathes deeply of its aroma.

he breathes deeply, drinks fully and sinking his teeth into the possibility of what could be...

he writes