Crystallize

I wanted a place to write.
Y'know, just me and the company of coffee and cigarettes; words being born in my patient hands.
So I rented this really great studio apartment, sunlight tickling every wall.  
On my first day I sat there and spun a magnificent web from my growling pen. And sat back in my sturdy chair, pleased with my creations.
Everyday, for two months, I poured every inch of that space onto my desperate pages, and every ray of sunlight pouring through that window had a name and a feeling and an urgent message to the world.
But slowly my words dwindled and I sat for three days, a prisoner to my unyielding chair.
Uninspired cigarette butts spilling over the edges of my lonely desk.
I jabbed and prodded my barren heart and brain;
I inquired the rusty typewriters of my mind about the abrupt shortage.
But it seemed the curtains closed on me.
Someone had locked the door and left this burnt out mind to fend for it's own light.
My empty handed voyage anchored at the dock,
and a lighthouse at the tip of my thoughts slowly lit and informed me that since I can no longer go inward for the words I must pick myself up and go OUT.

In the coming months, I neither wrote about sun rays, nor the simple pleasure of a musky cigarette.
I sat near a dirty homeless man and wrote about misfortune.
I watched the hundreds of people rushing by and wrote about ignorance.
The human race; racing toward the end of the earth, to either make the jump or run around in circles by the edge.
Next I walked among them and wrote about the multitudes of struggles I tripped over.
Each person in the crowd searching for something to save them; to make their diminutive lives worth their expensive shoes.
I shuffled among them and pictured a lifetime of words on each mans chest.
So many glorious words!
And with each word lighting up, I wrote.
Standing in the crowd I watched words, like blinking fireflies, crystallize my pages.
And the spaces in my mind came back to life:
Sad and then strong,
and finally illuminating.