What can YOU say in six sentences?
And so, the pen moves across the page and we find relief...
From what, exactly? Poorish food and the dull slog of time, from tedium and gray sheets, numbers that never quite add up and the incessant humm?
And so, the pen moves across the page, a kind of salvation--not the kind of being saved where one lies back sodden in the boat, breathing hard and dripping--but a kind of reaching toward that which saves, an active chewing of the wafer and gulping of the wine, rituals that just might keep us afloat if we do it often enough, kick hard enough, or clap our hands loud enough while saying, "Truly, I don't want to drown."
So we make up words (one a week because there are never enough words) and we try again to describe the sunset or the frog or the ache under our skins that can only be alleviated by the describing.
And so the pen moves across the page and the ink soothes and saves like rain in the desert, puddling and splashing and renewing our focus so that we live again.