Writing: A Portrait

I let the music flow through my tired brain and right through my body as I tapped away at the keyboard in front of me. The soothing Latino tunes worked their magic as I sank further back into my chair. It had been too long since I’d done this. Busy or late nights had resulted in coming home just going to bed. No time for the only thing I had ever considered myself good at. A sad state of affairs really. But that didn’t matter right now. No, right now, I was awash with the rhythm as I let the words come at their own speed. I paused, wondering when I would have a chance like this again, and put it out of mind, as I remembered a word I felt I didn’t use frequently enough.

The hour was late, but years of sleeping problems had stopped that from being a problem. If nothing else, it gave me a real sense of calm. There was nothing to distract me now. There were no demands on my time, nobody needed me for any particular purpose; the night was mine; and as the music moved into a slower, more relaxed tone, I myself slowed. Picked my words with a more careful precision. I adored these moments. Each syllable was a fine delicacy, to be savored as I turned them delicately over in my mind. There were no substitutes, the words had to be perfect. This zone was almost definitely one of my most treasured indulgences; if you could call it such a thing. What is it called when you do something you love? The word brought a smile to my face. Passion. That was truly what it was. Passion. To merely close my eyes, and be walking down the same alley in Bordeaux I had for the last five years, or to look out over the rooftops of London in the rain, places I had never been, things I had never experienced, all within my grasp. What a strange paradise.

I thought about all the people I had created, the moments that brought them happiness and pain. Were they me? Expressions of inner wishes and desires? The brother I never had, person I wish I was, the person I knew myself to be? Or were they something else entirely? I had the entire world at my fingertips, limitless possibilities. I could live a thousand lifetimes without ever leaving my doorstep. I stared at the faint glow of my computer screen with a new found sense of respect for the thing that made me who I was. For, truly, who was I without this? Was there a moment in my life, an emotion, a conversation, a rainy day, which I had not drawn upon to deepen my art? I was living that which I knew not to be real. Art imitates life. However a cliché a phrase it may be, it holds true. But I found myself considering the opposite. Perhaps it is life that imitates art. Each of us peering into our mirrors that we know to be a fabrication, unawares, that they are in fact, peering into us.

Smiling at just how abstract my mind gets at strange hours, I continued to write. In retrospect I had taken this time for granted. Even passion needs maintenance; needs love. A nostalgic wave passed over me as I remembered the precious moments I had created. What was it now? That sense of satisfaction in something that I had done, on my own, something I felt had enriched my life, and hopefully someone else’s. Of course, it’s pride. Not such a sin. In a life with little to be proud of, there I stood, head high. And it felt good.

I closed my eyes, and felt myself lean back into the simple wooden chair, holding the artistically wide mug of coffee in one hand, and a pen, hovering over a crossword in the other. I opened my eyes and looked at the small café, filled with its regular customers. They muttered to each other in a myriad of languages I didn’t understand, and I marveled in how much I loved this rich country to which I had become rather accustomed. I couldn’t remember how I’d come to be here in Europe, but it didn’t matter; I was here now, and I had never felt so at home.