Inkling

I am spinning, spinning out of control. The colors blurring together as watercolor across the canvas. Canvas, usually white or parchment dotted with the ink dripping black spots that smear my tears across the page.

Spinning, floating, sinking underwater. Backward thinking across the line of thought. Drowning across the underwater caves of my mind, I find my hand scripting voices to my thoughts and feelings.

Never stopping as my mind fills with country songs and classical piano pieces. The notes and words come to my hand and tingling down my calloused fingertips. Thumbs tracing the indent of the ink of paper, feeling the wet ink as it smears into the fingerprint, branding it in a thick paint. I can hear the melody play sweetly in my head and behind my eyes.

The words have an untamed power pulsing in my chest and drowning the entire room in its mute symphony heard only by the quietest of dust bunnies and my black iPod ear buds.

My words stumble across the last stanza, muttering a whisper of inspiration that I only know the meaning, something special meant for someone dancing in the stars.