Whisper in the wind

My office is the world and in it I sleep and wake, I watch and wonder. Perched on my small desk chair-- often a splintered park bench, a sagging coffee shop sofa, or a sticky metro seat-- I dream.

I dream of flying over infinitely lush meadows sprinkled with dandelions that glow light baby suns and of sailing in between gigantic clouds that tower over me like a tidal wave.

All I want in life is to be a writer, but I am so afraid, because I always feel I have noting to write. I have nothing to say. My simple words and mediocre thoughts are meaningless in the great span of things. What could I contribute to a world that exists perfectly without the neutrons and protons that huddle together to form the nucleus that makes the atom that clings to other atoms to make the beautifully tragic cells that have grown my body.

Even I do not belong to myself, but to the earth. To the systems that created where we live, that caused Pangea to evolve so that landmasses would spread to the ends of the planet, bold-bellied oceans would form, and caustic mountains would rise. I belong to some God that I have never intimately known. I am a product of nature, a child of the twilight sky and the twinkling stars and the twirling raindrops that dance across my face.

Without air I could not breathe. Without the sun I could not see. Without love I could not be.

A weathered farmer with wrinkles as deep as canyons plant corn seed expecting it to grow into a field of maze, and if it does not, he blames the earth, the natural inclination of passing space and time. He blames Nature herself.

But when I fail to produce the fruits of my labor, when I fall short and I am on my knees in front of my shadow I cannot blame the way the moon rises and drifts across the sky and falls into the horizon as dawn nears. It is my own doing. My own selfish accomplishment, or lack thereof.

Am I a writer if I have no good words. In order to write I must have something important to say. What do I have to say that has not been said before. What words can I whisper that have not already been caught up in the wind, to be scattered among the languages of the people of the earth. I cannot keep seeking and relying on others for inspiration. Fake words and incomplete actions do not produce greatness. I need natural inspiration.

Trees tall enough to reach to heaven so I can climb up and touch my maker's lips with the tips of my fingers. Oceans longer that the horizon is wide so I can feel all that the world experiences float past me with the pulling and dragging of the twice daily tide. I must leave this closet of suppression and allow myself to really lie. I must break out of the confines of my cubicle, as grand as my office may be with its clear glass walls and high lofty ceilings, the boundaries are still here. It must be just me and the world.