When I Stole Time

I stole hours today, no one noticed that they were gone but I took them. Alone at a table I wrote, the quite of the library. Among the laptops at the tables I was the lone notebook and I reveled in the ink and paper. I wrote until it was a rhythm, until I no longer had to think of the next word, until the pages blurred. I lost myself in blue ink and thoughts, I left behind the staid brown ink-the sepia that has glued me together for the past few months. Occasionally inspired by a thought I would search out a book, read a few lines, then return to writing. When I finally left the library a small cairn of them marked my seat.

Now typing I realize again why I love paper and ink. Typing takes me a step away from my words, from forming the curves and lines that make the letters. Here I am repeating the thoughts of my mind but on paper it is my mind leaking to the page.