As I look at all the shelves of books, I can't help but get intimidated. All the words that have been strung together, all the lives that have blossomed with phrases, all the paper and ink. I stop wanting to write when bombarded by all these books standing in silence, with the flipping of pages rhythmically filling the corner. But then I sit and observe people outside, see the way they move, the way they talk, letting my imagination write their story. I think it almost too wild the volume of living that happens on this planet. All the steps that are taken every day, the trees that bow in the wind, the heartbeats.
I enjoy people who, without saying a word, communicate to me their happiness, the bubbling of their mind and heart. Those who are stone-faced, slouched, curving the last few vertebrae as if peering into the eyes of a computer, evoke in me frustration. All I want to do to these people is ask them if they are happy and stand them up tall, pulling the imaginary string that pulls together all their vertebrae. Up, tall, look to the sky.