Ripples in the Sea

The slow click clack echoes around the half-empty room that has seen its fair share of nothingness. A room which is filled to the edges with unfulfilled dreams and aspirations, adorning the bare walls with the graffiti of one’s mind. The long, elegant fingers, the leanest part of the body, stretch and linger on the keys whilst the brain and extremities try to reconnect. There is a time delay, like the wobble of a bike after a few years of absence but it feels the same, the breeze through the hair, the flush of the face, the refound pleasure of the long forgotten. But just as after not having ridden for a while there’s no stamina and it’s quickly apparent that one cannot go on for long, especially one who is tainted by ill health.  One would think it’s been years rather than weeks that I haven’t managed to write but I suppose it amounts to the same thing. My small, sore red eyes are drooping, my fingers and brain slowing so for now I will call time but hope that this is the gentle beginning to a return to words.