• Lines in the Sand

    The thrumming string under the intense vibrato of his fingers silenced the world from his ears. Intensity of volume was one aspect of composing, however, intensity of passion was altogether a different aspect of beauty. It reflected genius in the mirror of natural ability. Where one was expected, the other was an unpredictable mass of creativity born from the occupied mentality of drive.

    Digression was a sin.

    Truly wonderful. He really didn't play a stringed instrument nor did he own one. Rather, the scene was the product of his over imaginative mind. It paid to be a writer but not a distracted one.

    Distraction could get him fired. Focus ruined novelty. He decided to take the lesser of two evils. Innovation could only take a person so far into reality. Money was the equivalent of survival in a democracy. Focus paid much better in cash than idleness. Dawdling, loitering, and sluggishness were his obstacles and they hampered his ability to pen down a single word. What once was a beautiful illustration through words was suddenly spoiled by the deadly sin.

    Once again, the deviation from the topic of his piece was pulling the originality from his work. It was simply turning ugly. He was rather gifted saying goodbye to the ingenuity of his compositions. He would simply have to give his regards to Mother Nature. She had taught him everything she knew and he drank it in until the full cup was empty.

    Unfortunately, it was still empty. He never really wrote the words down. To a certain extent, the music setting just played perfectly through his head but it never reached his left hand.