The map on the wall.

Forming roads in my mind from the cracks in the wall.

Every road intricately wrought through the peeled crack paint and old stains and marks.

Each time I sit and stare; a new road is journeyed in my mind.

I am daily enraptured by imagined adventure.

And from that dull old desk and abused wall, Time slips past me.

Each day I sit

Each day I dream.

before I realize it the lines between day and dream are completely blurred.

And even though all I need do is get up

I fail to achieve the one thing I pine for most.

Fail to drive myself to action.

 though that desire is well within my grasp.

For taking the first step is how all adventures begin

And in another ordinary day the longing consumes me.

I could not measure its potency.

And I absorb nothing else other than the old wall.

When finally the wall is meager.

My desk lifeless.

My reverie is insufficient.

I let it take me away.

No plan, I have.

No provision either,

Only a step.

Only an adventure imagined,

And a map on the wall.

           

the rain.

I think I enjoy the rain more than I should.

When people complain about it I simply keep shut.

For rain is to me one of creations most endearing qualities.

The smell indefinable- subtle yet strong.

Fresh but old- a distant scent yet familiar.

The sound is consoling. Like an old friend, who treats me with understanding.

For the rain and I we converse. I sip my tea while it continuously runs down my window fashioning itself in unpredictable patterns on the glass.

The rain sees the bigger picture. It is working for a brighter day.

Cold and wet temporarily it may be.

But we often forget the rain brings everything green.

It dampens the earth and brings out its raw scent.

It enhances the morning rose and beautifies the blade of grass.

It makes the awaking of unearthly hours bearable. 

And being in the inside of a house more heartening and tender.

It is an under appreciated beauty.

And though sky may be gray or cloudy, even they are in loveliness of their own.

The shade of colour, that will never be replicated.

Pale and eerie or dark and inky

The great billowing clouds everyday diverse. 

Great clouds that swell like balloons filling the sky- the part of which we see.

I think not; creation even at is worst is still breathtakingly exquisite.

The rain I find soothing- more than many things in fact.

I enjoy the rain more than I should.

The drawer.

She was never without a pencil she always had one about her. Ready at imaginations call. In slight graceful movement, with the flick of her wrist;
she formed the shapes concealed within in her mind.
For she was not eloquent or distinguished an average communicator if not that.
She had no way with words. She had nothing else but this 

The tender ways in which her lines took shape. 

It was almost dance like; the way her hand skimmed back and forth across the page

each time revealing a new dynamic to the drawing.

Yes she had nothing else than this.

But to say that was a pity would be great injustice indeed.

For as musicians play, and singers sing and writers write and dancers dance; her drawings did all these combined and more. For within the many layered lines lay the things of which they are made of.

Her drawings were her language her song and dance but more than than that they were a glimpse into a beautiful mind.

The corner store.

It begins on a rainy morning, thunderous clouds and a sky, which could not give the time of day away. Although it was 8:05 in the Morning, the sky was dark. So it was lucky that He was particular about time, and lucky that he always carried his grandfather’s gold pocket watch about him ( more for the sentimental value) But just to be careful (which he was always) His wristwatch was wound tightly around his wrist; which in turn kept perfect time. He unlocked the lock and with the click of the key pushed open the old heavy oak door and to hear the shop bell sound; music to his sensitive ears. He heaved in the smell of books. A smell he loved, the pages, the covers, the shelves. All of it his safe little adventure. He found he could become anything, anyone, see everything and anyone in the old corner store. He loved his books and his books loved him. And with each turn of a page the uncertainty of trouble, love, danger and more. From the shelves he heard them call to him, and from behind the counter he answered. Some would say he was ‘just’ a bookkeeper. Others would say he was more. But there was no doubting his bookstore on the corner was the finest. And there was no doubt this was because he adored literature more than anyone would. And even though he didn’t have to be at work till 10 he arrived at 8:05, every day for the last 7 years with new book in hand to add to his invaluable collection. He had his coffee at 8 for he would never take one in to the shop and for one whole hour and 55 minuets he walked the aisles and perused the shelves and everyday became lost in a new story. And everyday fell in love again. It was 8:10 and the shop door opened. It began on a rainy day in the little corner store.