I walked into my room. To the left is my bookshelf. I walked over, tilted the top of the book toward me and pulled it from the tight knit sandwiched books.
Old book. New dust. Blew the dust off.
I turned to my right toward my file cabinet. All of my old writings and documents. Enough writings to eventually start my own bookshelf. That was the goal.
Fifty-seven years of writing has led me toward more years of reading. Read twice as much as you write. And write half as much as you are trying to say. Done well so far.
Underneath my bed, the shoebox filled with old surprises. I put things in there. Interesting things. Then in the autumn, I look back at the years’ findings. All the answers and clues toward the fall. Some things may have been for the upcoming winter or next spring. Still not sure how time works. Just know that the clock holds things in place.
Underneath my bed, I crawl a bit and push the box back in. Found things worth mentioning. Other things, just found.
I like the subtle things. Anytime someone tries to tell me something, I can guess it’s not as important as the reaction I have toward not reacting. Those dry seconds of exploring their time crunch and seeing if it holds the same noise.
I stand up. My knees crack. My legs are swoll from the excess of exercise throughout the years. Bold calves. Tree trunks. I walk toward the door. My room wishes to tell me a secret. I listen. Bookshelf to the left. File cabinet to the right. Bed forward, shoe box. Everything is in its place.
I close the door behind me. The room makes noises from earth’s pressure without my presence. Through my absence.
I sit at the dining room table. An old prayer comes back. The energy in the house alters. Becomes as strong as beams in a high-ceiling’d house. The prayer strong.
The house fills with a new sense of home. My tired feet ache in a way where they wish to heal.
The musicians of the world will play a new song tomorrow. I pray inspiration finds its way to each person. For now, steady hands massaging old feet. The tension enough to feel the streets pressure.
Journalistic Writing