IV



It was suddenly emptiness;
he stared at the white page in front of him,
blank, and it stared somehow back
at him.
He, too, was somehow empty;
a part of him was.
It always begins like these, he thought,
and then something must be
created, out of
feelings, sensations, thoughts and ideas
that came into mind long before any word
was ever written; and they came
in colours and sounds
like shadows in a house, memories,
the past, pictures of faces
scattered in the air, shattered against the walls,
reverberating forever into space,
timeless.
It seemed to be about
finding some harmony in chaos; in what was
a chaotic existence, during chaotic times.
A portrait of reality then, required
something new; perhaps chaos too;
and in the midst harmony,
the most perfect peace possible;
like reaching the end of a cliff
and peering over it
get a glimpse of the fall
and then come back; those had to be the words;
in paper, too, the same experience,
direct, the distance now closed.
That was the only eternity possible
and they knew it; they made it;
thanks for that.
He stared at the page again, cold,
and he saw it was no longer blank.