Trees, Poems, and Leftover Spaghetti

“Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper, that we may record our own emptiness.” ~Kahil Gibran


Well, Kahil Gibran, there are many things I am feeling right now as I sit before my computer screen at 11:30 this Friday night, but empty is not one of them.

Exhausted, yes. Beaten, worn-down and tired, certainly. But not empty.

It has been a long and grueling day, my friend. That I can say with complete honesty. I am sore and aching, my eyelids drooping and my thoughts scattered and slow to formulate. There is a part of me that longs to reach the comfort of my bed, close my eyes and block out this day that was all too much. That took all too much from me.

But there was one thing that today didn’t take. And that was the passion – the one thing that never sleeps: the unrelenting urge to pick up the pen and create something. To condense all the thoughts I have had this past week into something salvageable – something that someone would want to read. To awaken the writer within once more.

No, I am not empty. I am full.

I dragged myself out of bed at 5:30 this morning. That, I did not want to do. I have taken three tests today. Also not too enjoyable. I have been disappointed over a history grade, I have been rained on, and I even had to eat nasty leftover spaghetti for dinner.

All things considered, I deserve to go to bed right now. Probably should.

But instead I am up writing. Why is that, I wonder? Why do I choose this moment to write? Why don’t I reward myself for making it through today by going to sleep, like all the other millions of normal people my side of the earth?

Because this is my reward.

This is the first time all week I have been able to stop and write. I am choosing to. No one is forcing me to sit down and hammer these words out. No one has yelled at me to get in my room, sit my butt down, and do something meaningful with my life. No one is pouring thoughts into my head and ordering that they be put down on paper (well, for all I know there could be… that would explain a lot).

No, instead I am here. Writing. And I am so happy about it, I can forget the exhaustion for a while. I can forget the pouring rain and the bad day. Even the leftover spaghetti is fading into nothing more than a distant memory.

This is what passion is. This is what love is. If everyone in the world could feel the way I do now about something -anything at all- that could inspire them the way I am inspired in this moment, our world would be better by tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. We as mankind would have set ourselves on a road to greatness.

Let us now take a moment and reflect on our lives.

There is something inside you that never sleeps. Something that can make you forget all about your leftover spaghetti and want to stay up late just to enjoy it for a little while. Something to bring your soul peace. It could be music, it could be art, it could be a good book.

But for me, it is writing. As it has always been, and always will.

So amidst all the schoolwork and the chores and the numerous other things I am far too tired to rattle off right now, I have done something I wanted to do.

And that something is what I want to be doing for the rest of my life.


Thoughts? I love those.

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