The Fluther Transversion and Other Portals
 

 On Writing
 
Sometimes his thoughts, like his fingers, groped frozen or arthritic around the fountain pen in his left hand.  Sometimes though the ideas seemed to gush--that moment when the ice floes broke up in the spring and began to glide fiercely down the river.
 
Stringing letters into words on a page--one after the other--teased with the promise of stepping stones or in more dismal moments even a life-line to climb out of those ravines of logical or moral quandary. 
 
Yet once seen and reflected back at you, the words were no longer yours entirely. They had become their own beings.
 You might like them. You might even dote on them, poor sod! Or you might loathe them briefly, like the resurging memory of the boy who, to a chorus of laughter, had pinned your forehead on the refectory table.
 
But there they stood, the little patter of letters on their own two feet. Some held up a mirror in one hand, others shook a sign of protest. And the man he had become had to read through the sludge to  get behind all the  rhetorical chanting. What was it they really wanted him to say? What was it he really wanted to say?

 
                   --Victoria Foote-Blackman

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