The day had come and gone without his notice. He had buried his face in the everyday and could not say whether the sun had shone all day or if snow had dusted the neighborhood. It was as if he had slept all day, but he remembered waking.
Outside, he knew, there was a cold colder than the coldest cold and a land anxious for spring, but he hadn’t glanced out the window, as far as he could remember, so he couldn’t say if the ground was softer or harder or ice-covered or some lingering grass was visible. He thought he may have communicated with the outside world but couldn’t remember the details.
It was as if the day was a blink. It was as if the day had never begun and would never end. All he knew was all he knew. All he could do was all he could have done.
He began to nod and caught himself.
“No,” he whispered. “Whatever else, not an early sleep. I am going to write something tonight. Let me wait this out. Play this out. See it through. Whatever.”
Whatever. He couldn’t even focus his eyes, let along his thoughts. He could even raise his emotion enough to feel bitter about it. It was just a day that had come and gone, like most of the others. And so it went.
“Here I am,” he said to the universe. “Do you see me? I can feel you out there, I can feel you in my chest, but do you feel me?”
He imagined the universe whispering back, “Of course I can.” But he didn’t know if he really imagined it or if he really heard the voice speaking.
Even a poem has a story to tell, he thought and wondered where the thought had come from.
Even a bird can’t fly all day. Even the runner must stop and rest. Even the lonely has company to keep.
And what is the why of it? he wondered. Why this compulson to put words to paper, why the urge to shout love into the wind, why the purging of hate in a scream – the purging of a hate he didn’t even feel? “I have no sins to confess today,” he said, “except the sin of pride to think I have no sins.” The thought made him hungry for a pretzel.
Wearily he lowered his eyelids and cursed the arrogance of the writer. “Such bilge,” he spat. “You torture your poor readers with nonsense. Nothing to say here, move along, move along, go on now, that’s it, thank you so much.”
And out beyond the windows that had been shut for months, he thought he saw a light, heard a rustling. He felt something out there – but now it truly was bedtime and it would have to wait, if it could survive the night.