I wonder about my impending life story.
I might write it on a napkin.
Or on never-ending paper that flows out the door and down the stairs and maybe drags through the mud or through the streets, with my life inking the gutter black and the water black and any foot that happens to walk over it black before the paper catches the wind and drips over tree branches, or blankets tall buildings while it flies towards the sky, with wings, so it can come back to the ground when it wants.
And I think about my life thus far, of the highlights and lowlights and my kind of lights that swing with the wind in lanterns, beacons for weary travelers or the wandering kind, or my kind of lights that pace around the evening floor wondering when the sun will come to placate their fatigue, or my kind of lights that nestle feathers deep into the day so that when the time comes to lay down those feather lights will be there like feather pillows for my tired mind.
Most books sing to me, when written well, and at times my writing chimes, not like the annoying chimes on a windy day but the kind of celestial chimes which play out in ethereal places, like churches, where I rarely go, or in bell towers where the ringing goes on and on so long as someone is there to pull the bell’s strings. Writing lifts me up, perks my spirit into a standing position, or a running position if I am feeling spontaneous, and I am thankful for my writing voice, a familiar voice that has matured over the years, and seems more like a scruffy beard than the type of whiskers that sprouted when I was young.
So on nights like this, where my apartment seems to stand still even as the world blows all around me, I turn, affectionately, to my writing, and to my books, like one would turn to an old friend, and I settle down in my evening blanket, and mute the obnoxious television so I can breathe in these wordy sensations, to remind myself that my words, and my books, if anything, will always make me smile.