Had I the time and talent, I would learn to strum an old
front porch guitar. I would make up
songs as I went along, entertaining anyone who happened to linger. If I had the resources, I'd travel down
south. I would sit in a local café just
to listen to the slow, southern accents, feeling my own blood pressure and
stress level calm down (and I would
have some pie).
Somewhere in the back of my mind I have this running list of
things that fall under the category of, one of these days. Over the years, of course, some of the items
on this list have changed. Even the ones
that have held on the longest haven't always kept their original position. As my personal likes and dislikes change, my
list makes priority adjustments. The
time of year also affects these items, for as July and August draw near my
desire to head to southern states diminishes.
I have no inclinations towards space exploration, sailing,
mountain climbing, or exploring religious philosophies. The items on my list have always been the simple
pleasures, like finding the perfect cookie, learning Italian, to photograph
someone's face for a chance of capturing unsullied human expression, or simply
sitting with friends - hearing about the things on their list.
As most of you know, the one thing that has never fallen
from my list is to take a little time every day to play with words. The written word to me holds all of the
treasures found within human thought. Its
bounty extends beyond all margins, in soft, colorful strokes, or can be as sharp
as a wedge of cheese, expressed in a harsh, regrettable tone. Words, when arranged just right, can evolve
into brilliant stage plays that pull us through rivers of emotions, even though
we never once leave our chair. Words,
when sinisterly manipulated by advertisers, can gnaw away at us, forcing us to
remember their product.
I believe there to be an agonizing plight in the hearts of
true poets. It is a weight never lifted,
a passion fueled by both love and rage.
It is perhaps their very soul slowly leaking through the tip of the
pen, leaving behind what some would see as excess droplets of ink, but are in
fact small fragments of items that once resided on an old and tired list.
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