A thousands words or lines,

Is writing a 1000 words similar to drawing a 1000 lines.

The same number of one or the other

My hand moves over the paper.

The pen follows my thoughts

And draws on the paper more lines.

Uses whatever works best to illustrate the current thought process,

to illustrate what I am dealing with at the time of execution.

A 1000 somethings are helping me talk, show on paper what I often didn’t know I was trying to work out. What flows from my hand into my pen, while my body often sits peacefully on a chair, stands at a table, at an easel.

And my hand moves.

I watch and see a part of myself in action. And through that action a part of myself acquires a life of its own.

Do I know you or are you just attached to me?

Am I the battery that keeps you running, the heart that keeps you ticking.

Writing a 1000 words,

A 1000 lines,

Living through a 1000 nights, days, weeks, months, minutes.

The hand that commends my life.

The moving hand from left to right or the other way.

Still not really sure.

But my hand doesn’t mind, isn’t bothered.

My shoulder is woken into activity.

I can feel the movement from the shoulder down to my pen.

My muscles, my nerves on alert

Performing obediently their tasks.

My shoulder blade concentrating on the act,

The bone even irritated by so much activity.

And the rest of my body attentive, giving itself over to the action of the active pen.

Which brings my thoughts to life in words and lines and colours

In front of me on the page, the screen, the canvas.

I see my thoughts being born, conceived, growing, sometimes to make sense and fitting a bigger picture,

Dying, those 1000 words, lines as compost decompose,

In somebody else's mind

Where after a lot of rest, nourishment and gestation

They will then appear on another page written by another pen, coming through another hand.

But still 1000 words, lines, colours

And my pen records them all.