If I played
violin in the desert the notes would still stir me, but there would be
no applause, just the echoes across the horizon.
Flat.
If I made a
glass sculpture in a warehouse and showed it to no one, it would still
reflect the light, even if the light was
60 watt.
Unseen drawings done with
chalk on the sidewalks of abandoned
school yards would fill up no hats and will be washed away by uninterested
thunderstorms. But it would
leave the colors on my hands, my knees and my eyes.
I don't need anyone to see any of these things; maybe they don't even exist.
But my words don't hide in unread notebooks anymore. And my thoughts no longer fly out car windows like so many straw wrappers. Flying away to parts unknown.