The Author

Minutes turn to hours, as the clock ticks onwards; still the paper before me remains crisp, white – untouched. My right hand is now cramped, from it’s gripping my pen and the notation on my pad, slowly bringing alive my thoughts. Every scribe I write becomes structured, I stop to think before every word; look back over what I have written, disjointed, yet I know it all. A play on my script, tweaking here and there. Informing every thought I record, bringing brilliance for my virgin page. Words form sentences, pictures are painted; a masterpiece of art, breathing life to my work, to be realized by many. I transfer my scribe, to my neat sheet waiting. Ink flows smoothly, a pleasure to see. Release washes relief over my tense form. Midnight strikes, not long left now, before I can lay my pen to rest and bid ‘Goodnight’, to another fulfilled and worthy day.