I was sitting at my computer, as I usually am in the dying hours of each day. I had my headphones on and was engulfed in the music from my favorite play list. Letting the rhythms pass through me like a gentle brook, hypnotizing and relaxing. But somewhere in the middle of Kenny Chesney’s ‘Chasing Demons’ a frail and timid sound tried to push through the notes. It was barely audible in the beginning; as if someone from a distant neighborhood was calling out for their loved ones to come in for the night. I ignored it and continued with my nightly ritual. But the noise sulked and brooded; reminding me of a spoiled child that had been forced to stand in the corner. It fidgeted and twitched; stomping around in my mind, becoming louder, demanding to be noticed. As it became clear that I was not to be rid of it I picked up my pen and let the noise pour into it.

At first it rambled too quickly. Its sentences were incoherent and confused and its structure was laughable. But as the noise learned to control its emotions it calmed and gained confidence. A coherent word here and an intelligent sentence there until it became its own voice bordering somewhere on the edge of competent prose. Through my pen the noise began to court the page, stroking its ego with eloquence and coaxing the words from the depth of the paper’s blank stare. It no longer needed me for guidance and I let the ink caress the emptiness between the blue lines. I lost track of the music. There was only the sound of the pen carrying on its seductive conversations. I sat helplessly by and let the noise sing its song. It became so engrossed with itself that it did not feel the need to confide in me as it rolled the words from nothingness and brought them into creation.