He sat there like a tethered hummingbird, perched silently on the shoulder of imagination, struggling to sing its lovely song. The soothing lullabies he desired to loudly expel into the recesses of the world were muted by the lack of light and air – but not of audience. He was weighted, bound by the shackles of earthly responsibilities, and a societal pressure to not only consume the bread and butter, but to be consumed by all of the temporary fulfillments it promised to deliver.
He sought spiritual contentment, if only by the means of intellectual dialogue, penned contemplations that guaranteed a peacefully orgasmic release of the pressure and stress that came with earthly riches – material possessions he knew he could do without.
The glass which sat on the sill of his window fell abruptly onto the ground. That damn cat he nurtured playfully - toyed with the concept of gravity – and with one swing of his paw, a majestic array of glass reflected a dozen images of himself and the world around him. With a loud thud and gasp of air, he suddenly felt free. The delightful patterns of a shattered glass reflected the rising sun, and like geneses, the darkness slowly faded, and there were no longer shades of gray to confuse his colorful spirit. Like geneses, there was light. Like geneses, there was a new becoming.
The world was his. He knew it. All things lovely, all things kind, and all things unknown would be his catalyst. He sat there, perched silently on the shoulder of imagination… and began to write again.
