And if I don’t write, then what?
What will become of the unuttered words, swirling through the mind, resurfacing at inconvenient instants? Will they evaporate, then, and seep into the walls of this empty room? Or will they sink to dark depths, and be rediscovered at a time when there is little else to think about – when the mind is calm and still? If such a time will come – when there is leisure to look beyond the present, to words buried in the past – I wonder if I will I care for them at all.
If I don’t write, what then?
There will still be ink rising up the columns of tomorrow’s paper. I myself will skim the pages, and casually glance at the by-lines of others striving to be significant. And there will be none to miss the unuttered words, swirling and sinking to dramatic depths.