There are days when you know it would be better to stay in bed, roll over, and spend the next twenty-four hours pretending to be dead to the world.
Today was one of those. If not for the need to urinate every few hours the sage would have liked very much to have stayed in bed and taken the day off.
The early morning hours were spent preparing for what always turned into a marathon day of writing, blogging, scribbling, note taking, and the occasional tweet hashtag used to prompt later memories back into the forefront of consciousness.
This new age of simplicity seemed so troublesome and bulky to the sage. ” It was a new age of multitasking than one of intellectual freedom or growth,” said the sage out loud.
“So says you”, croaked out a small voice.
Half ignoring the interruption the sage continued on with the mornings chore of gathering and sharpening his pencils, cleaning and reshaping the quill, topping off the ink well, replacing the blotter or reusing some older one, and the restacking of parchment and tablets into a more tidied pile.
To the old man these forms of creation had a more artistic beauty to them. A flow of skill in the shaping and shape of each word and line. Such a wonderful talent as any sculpture or painting could ever be. The sage didn’t quite put the same skill or label of craftsmanship to this age of spell check and font choices.
“Only an illusion”, said the small croaking voice, and as quietly as it came was gone.
“Good riddance”, shouted the sage. Hoping the loudness of his voice would follow the unwelcome visitor back to where it had originated, he new better. “Illusion and allusions, mixed metaphors without pretext, trouble me no more.”
And with that the sage lit his stove, heated up the water, and began to prepared his morning pot of coffee.
“Today I think there will be a touch of Irish to it”
And another day began.