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Something in Nothing: A Case of Writer's Block

I hoped looking out the window might lead me to the profound. That if I simply paid attention, if I pulled the strings tied to my eyes upwards and drew my gaze away from my feet, my aching hands and bright white screen, my dust-tinged nails and tarnished rings, I’d become aware of Something. 


But I laid by the window, and I watched. I watched a biker move South as a car drove North, and I watched the leaves of a tree in my front lawn shimmy and shudder. I watched the sun begin to crawl down the pink and orange ladder, and I watched the way its beams cast warm hues on my toes pressed up against the glass, leaving smudges of heat behind. 


I laid by the window and I watched, and I became aware of my surroundings and what time it was, but I did not become aware of Something. There seemed not to be a clear, great Something waiting for me to find it in the clutter outside the dusty pane. Nothing to be spied out like in those books my brother used to read, crowded page after crowded page, meant to be scoured for an umbrella or a teddy bear or a pair of reading glasses. 


There was nothing but the biker and the car and the tree and the sun, but maybe that is the Something people talk about.

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