To Write

Mundane like a clock stuck ticking away, in stark digital numbers rather than heavy pendular beats. Sickly neon-green, or a black needle stuck forever in a circle, day in, day out, seven AM to five. Yessir, yessir, the daily grind. The rat-a-tap of keyboards or a scale weighing this, that, and the other thing. Necessary, pay the bills good citizen, thine ever-loving Deity of Mortgage demands his tithe.

Ah, but to write.

Glorious cursive pen-strokes. Just because it looks prettier on thin college-ruled sheets, let's be honest honey, you type faster than your longhand. Pages and pages and portals on each. Thine blessed genres, fantasy to tragedy, what's your fancy tonight? Doesn't matter. The wretched clock has reverted, old grandfather, and that smiling sun is once more painted behind lazily roving golden hands. No hurry, no worry, calm the hustle and think. Make worlds with a pen. Make 'em dance, make 'em sing, make 'em die. Their blood, your ink. Oh corpse of monotony, oh decaying imagination, time to rev up the engines as we seat ourselves in the holy chair. Hallowed desk awaits. Be as flowery as you wish, as silly as you want, as open, as poignant, as verbose. Whoever said escapism was unhealthy never gave this a try. It's time to come alive.

Ah, but to write, now that is a pleasure.