A White Page Of Tiny Places

      

I sit, glancing out the window, which line the sides of my calming place.  Streets, cars, houses and snow -- all partake my knowledge filled intoxication.  I peer from behind my laptop.  Cell phone charging, iPod resting, mouse connected, notebooks lined neatly, and a prominently displayed backpack which takes up the farthest side of the table -- trying to occupy my thoughts for words.  The shelves reach for me, while the books plead -- "come frolic inside my tender spines . . ."  The two lightly tanned brick pillars separate me from my wandering motives and intentions.  I want to just be -- blissfully unaware of the ticking clock.

Unaware of the hours I have lost by finding myself trapped in a new world.  A familiar world, but still new.  I unknowingly stare out onto the roads facing my peripheral.  I catch a man walking his dog, two men on paralleled streets, shoveling and throwing rock salt.  And as the salt tossing takes place, the song on my playlist changes:  a running soundtrack.  Sort of an audio book.  For some reason the taunts of the many books have now melted into a story burned inside my retina.  I have breathed story into my once placated fascination of sheets of paper and untouched screens.  Life now resides in the psyche of  my wondering.  The time to read is over.  It is now time to write.  Write about the adventures that I managed to observe without much movement.  Write about the many lives intertwined:  On a white page of tiny places.