Bookends

The list of things to do was long, the sole day of freedom weighing heavy with expectation. But as I opened the lid of the word processor, as I took in the scent of fresh coffee and dusty pages and felt again the familiar sensation of words in my blood stream, all the other demands faded away. I made more coffee, and more coffee still, and everything that needed to be said was so easily told until there was nothing more to offer. I printed the pages, it took ages, my printer roaring to life and the smell of warm ink spreading through the messy room. There it is, I thought, and though I was supposed to feel accomplished I only felt empty. Now what?

I tied my running shoes, confused. But as I sat still on the quiet couch, staring into nothing, it dawned on me: the emptiness only lingered around the idea of accomplishment. In my heart, the very heart through which all these words flow, I felt full. I don't write to get something, to win. I write, because I don't know what it is not to.