I begin with borrowed words. Words that once roared with meaning but that have, over the years, been gradually relegated to a distant quarter in my memory. As the dying embers of an almost extinguished flame gain a new lease of life as they are wrapped in the embrace of harmattan winds, to become a raging inferno, these words are rekindled in my heart.
The words of Waldo. They do sound like words a man with such a face would pen down; with his protuberant nose and his contemplative, “transparent eyeballs” that always seemed to be gazing at an echidna moving stealthily in the distance. Echidna, a word I can’t help but pronounce in a heavy lake-side accent. His hair always appeared forced into its languorous position by too much gel. Hair that always threatened to jump back to its natural position that resembles the echidna’s spikes had the painters not made quick work of the painting. I dare not forget those insufferable sideburns that have always appeared to me like two finger-sized furry insects that were paying off a debt owed.
Waldo penned down those words, the words of an intellectual, an introspective man. He wrote about inspiration and where it all comes from. Maybe just maybe, I recently caught a whiff of it and that’s why I am here. “Our intellectual and active powers increase with our affection. The scholar sits down to write, and all his years of meditation do not furnish him with one good thought or happy expression; but it is necessary to write a letter to a friend, — and, forthwith, troops of gentle thoughts invest themselves, on every hand, with chosen words.”
I agree, affection is a great source of inspiration, but also pain; success, but also failure.
So I guess I will see you in the next one, maybe.
ycliffe 