Writing

I sit down to write and stare at a blank screen, the white almost blinding as pictures of thoughts dance across it faintly, tantalizing and daring me to catch them and frame them forever in black and white. Words itch to break free from my fingertips, to splash across the screen and join the others in the celebration of communication. And yet, they are silent, waiting impatiently for my bidding to begin.
But I am still.
And nothing comes and nothing comes and nothing comes.
The click of the keys begin at last and fingers hesitantly and cautiously begin to type, only to stop and erase and begin again. Begin again and again and again.
Ideas come and go, too quickly to catch, impressions that are too shallow and too faint to bring to life. Ideas to be communicated and shared, emotions and feelings to express are dancing around in my brain, heels and toes tapping faster and faster, but not matching the slow touch of my fingers on the keyboard.
Slowly, slowly, slowly.
Words build on top of each other, building deeper and deeper, building understanding and comprehension. They mount up, building word cities, the black characters forming traces on a page, lines like a city skyline, stretching on and on and on.
Words and phrases, satisfying and delightful, rolling off the tongue, rolling from my mind, rolling along to reach another's eyes and soul.
The rate of my fingers picks up and the typing forms a staccato like the steady beat of a drum, calling attention to a subject and topic, calling attention to sit up! and notice. They take on a life of their own and unbid, they strike and form words, striking and hitting and ceaselessly moving until ideas are captured and held tight in place, a period like a nail on the end of the sentence.
Fingers that fly and fly and fly.
Fingers that take to the air and catching imagination they're away on the wing, away to form ideas and thoughts I never knew I had until it stares at me from the page, from the screen, from the mirror of my heart.
And sitting back, I stare in that mirror, a glimpse of my heart, and look to see what it means. Look to see what it says, look to see what is there.
Then, exhausted, my fingers tumble over each other, finally coming to rest. The tumult ended, the words are found and put into place.
And silence reigns again.