I inhale. I exhale. The pencil in my hand nervously taps the paper as I anxiously wait, and then...just as abrupt blowing of the shiftless wind outside in the "real" world, I begin.
I scribble. I scrawl. Words illegible to all but me. My pencil sings sweet nothings to the feathered paper- its passions purely conveyed through the Eb and flow of its composition. It's soft piano notes demonstrated by smooth luscious symbols And the crescendo -the forte of the piece- eminent by erratic slashes and deep wounds. Breaks in thought. Unwritten music obvious by illegible lines into the planes of nowhere.
Slowly this musical metaphor seems to have taken the image of a Picasso. The harsh abstractness of it's lines communicating nothing yet everything in one glance. A language for all languages. Yet-this is not souly what I have set out to create. It has evolved in to something quite deeper than I ever imagined. More symbolic, more open, more wondrous, more widespread-less me. Although secretly my paper, my pencil, myself-this is what we have all strived for.
The roaring wind outside in the "real" world hushes. My pencil breaks from it's ballet. The paper sighs, relieved from the stress. I -no we- have achieved it. For I could not have completed this on my own.