Friday, April 17, 2009

LET YOUR FINGERS DO THE WALKING


The man sat in front of his typewriter. He stared at it with his hands by his sides. The blank page stared straight back at him, in some way mocking him for his apparent paralysis. He had put on his old soft cardigan, his old soft corduroy trousers and his old soft slippers. He had turned the off the record player, put the Dave Brubeck record back in its sleeve, and the sleeve back on the shelf. He had closed the window, shut the curtains and lit a candle, the only light, bar whatever soft sunlight that had made it through the sentry doors of the curtains. He had blocked out all outside noise, interference and distraction. But still he stared. No words came. No ideas. Nothing. By giving himself nothing, he had nothing, and by abstaining from influence he had suffocated his muse. 

But slowly he lifted his arms and set his fingers to the typewriter. He began to type, one letter and one finger at a time. He wrote one word, pulled the paper from the machine and placed it on the desk. He looked back at the paper and read the word to himself. 

Purpose.

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