With a View

The room is impossibly large, uninhabited and clean, a blank slate of a room with no curtains. I drag the desk from a corner to the windows, large panoramic windows and no distractions. The view holds an entire valley, an entire mountain range in early fall colors, an entire landscape of my own imagination, it's breathtaking. I pile books and papers and notepads on the desk, hang a painting above it. I rummage about, trying to get comfortable, trying to let the cool air sink into the soles of my feet, here is the gift I give myself, here is the precipice of a dream, he asked me how I got into writing and I said I didn't, writing just chose me at some point and I had to follow it. It's a pretentious answer made less so only by being true. I open an envelope full of notes to self, jewels of words that have littered my paper piles for months and years and built themselves a home; it's a veritable fortune cookie, I decide to pick one a day and let it guide me. I close my eyes, run my fingers across the thin sheets, pull out a small scrap and look at it, smiling:

do the thing.

Ok.