Alone I write: Again as nothing……
By Staff Writer: Paganus Greybeard
Alone I sit -
quiet in the night -
upright in bed -
light overhead -
paper and pencil -
writing.
Beside Me books -
printed pages bound -
words and images -
knowledge offered -
wisdom shared -
learning enabled.
Clipboard and paper -
pencil in hand -
words in thought -
words by written hand -
images of visions -
sensations of emotions -
feelings of encounters -
sharing of inner self -
fragments of psyche -
captured by mind -
committed to paper -
to be read -
to be shared -
written by One for All.
Quietly I sit -
alone to write -
upright in bed -
quiet in the day -
sunlight through window -
paper and pencil -
writing.
Beside Me piles -
books, papers, boxes -
life in cluttered jumble -
collected here -
where I sit -
where I write -
alone.
This Household is no Monastery -
This Room is no Cloisture -
yet in many ways -
for so many years -
in so many Households -
so many Rooms -
Those roles Household and Room have served.
I am here as surely as if I were locked up.
I cannot leave.
Where to go? -
How to get there?
Cloistured here I am.
I sit here -
I sit here alone -
I write here -
I write here alone -
Who is there to read?
I am here to write.
Who can read if I never leave here?
Here I write.
Here are My words.
Together We are here -
alone.
I am here -
words by hand -
no online -
no phone -
silenced.
Shut-down.
Shut-out.
Solitary.
I have Articles, Forum entries and Poems to write.
They are not written.
Not today are they written.
What is the point -
if in this Cloisture -
I am to remain?
I cannot contribute this way.
I cannot participate this way.
I am not involved this way.
Here -
as Silent Solitary -
I cease to exist as a working and functional
participant and contributor.
Here -
in this Room that is not a Cloisture -
in this Household that is not a Monastery -
I become again as nothing.
Cold stone walls surround Me -
there are physically no stone walls here -
yet I ‘feel’ & ’sense’ them.
Exercises I have been doing -
this is not exercise.
I am in stone -
surrounded by stone -
there is no stone.
I ’see’ the arched covered walkways -
I ’see’ the well & cistern -
the strange patterns of shadow in the courtyard -
I ‘hear’ the slam of the heavy wooden doors -
the soft footsteps down the corridor -
in My Room -
in My Cloisture -
I am -
again as nothing -
writing as by hand -
pausing for a moment -
wondering if any will read the words -
words I write -
not in stone -
but here in Household -
alone.
What ‘test’ is this?
What ‘challenge’ is this?
What ‘lesson to be learned’ is this?
I sit enclosed in a silent and empty
monastery of stone -
a monastery of silent stone that
does not physically exist -
yet I ‘feel’ it -
I ’sense’ it as thought it were existant -
I can almost even ’smell’ it -
dampness and mildew -
not of lath, metal and wood -
but of stone and brick.
I am not a Monk,
So why do I feel that I am?
This is no monk’s cell.
So why do I feel that it is?
This is no stone carved monastery.
Then why do I ‘feel’ the stone so strongly
I can almost touch it?
What experience is this?
I know not.
I am simply sitting here -
clipboard and paper -
Saturn’s Day afternoon -
writing -
alone.
This is no exercise.
This is very, solidly real.
This is happening -
if only inside My mind.
White stone walls.
Dark wooden doors.
Tiny slits of windows.
Cots, tables, desk, closet and chair.
Worn rug upon floor.
None physical.
Yet all so very real.
Another time?
Another place?
Another realm or dimension?
I do not know.
Yet I do know this -
the longer here I sit -
sit writing here -
the more I ’see’, ’sense’, ‘feel’.
How unreal.
Or is it?
Whom to speak with?
Whom to share this with?
Nobody.
Not till Mondae -
If even then….
Will anybody even read this
will anybody even know of this -
I cannot say -
I cannot know.
Perhaps yes.
Perhaps no.
This is far beyond My knowing.
These words - by hand -
were written.
That much I know.
Alone I sit -
Quietly -
upright in bed -
sun through window -
paper and pencil -
writing -
alone.