The Table

     
 

"We can not do great things. We can only do little things with great love." ~ Mother Teresa

I saw that table and immediately thought of my muse, "Oh Baby, we must write there at least for once in our lives."

Before the table comes, though, we must be ready.

Oh voice of my thoughts, we must be in the habit to wake up early to catch that gorgeous light. We must have slept well enough in the previous night, risen early enough to breakfast and remove the plates, for there is no fire without fuel and writing is a cold communion with indifferent solitude.

And these habits take a lifetime to form.

Oh fire of my heart, we must be smart enough, have read widely enough, and cared enough to protect and encourage our minds’ freedom and growth. For without that, we’re no better than asses, my love.

We must be healthy enough, live long enough, so that the chances for us to meet there improve. We must eat well enough, care to exercise enough, so that our bodily complaints won't interrupt our immersion in the pouring of our existence on the page.

We must be rich enough to travel there. And we must have exerted ourselves enough to be able to sit there with relative calm, with only our minds active, not our limbs and mouths and conflicts.

Oh music of my craft, we must converse often enough, have forgiven each other and ourselves even more often. We must have loved and kissed and fought hard enough to face the moment loaded with notes and knots to unwound on that table.

We must offer ourselves to the people who care for us enough to keep us afloat in the our moments of doubt. We must break our hearts hard enough to liquefy our ink. We must be strong enough for others to break our hearts and fill us with the whys and maybes that shall stir and prod in us a world of wonder.

Just enough, just about.

Moreover, we must try to keep writing daily, consistently, so that we'd remember how to tune into the music within us at a moment’s notice, to translate the marvel of our lives into rudimentary sentences without losing its forceful meaning.

Above all things, we must be good enough to each other so that when the time comes, we'd be able to hold the companionship of facing the hush together.

Oh my little brown muse, if all that is too much work for a mere table, a perfect morning to write with you in that perfect light, then what other cause is there worth living and hoping for?

What then?

 
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