I was just reading W. Somerset Maugham, collected short stories, volume 4, page 3, when I slipped into a reverie. And my thoughts wandered off to how writers wrote. Did they look at the ceiling or the floor. Or did they look at the pen they wrote with. Maybe it didn’t matter what they looked at, because they were never looking at the floor, the ceiling, the paper or the pen. But looking through them, pondering over visions of yesterday or of the day after. What ever suited their flights of fancy. But mine rested on the crack on my ceiling. And trailed away following its many twists and turns. Like the river in which I used to play, back at home. With its rippling currents and small sweet waves. That used to lap gently at my feet. The unadulterated stream that was the centre of my universe. That has now run dry and looks deceptively similar to this growing crack.
(Poster on a ceiling)
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