Mercy, Mercy

I fell asleep briefly and was startled awake at three a.m. Upon getting up and muddling about I was additionally startled to discover that there were apparently no pens to be had anywhere in the world. There was no ink. There were no pencils.

There was no way for me to write anything down, to leave any kind of permanent or even (the more realistic scenario) hopelessly transitory record.

And I realized as well that the words weren’t taking shape, weren’t coupling, weren’t forming sentences in my head. They weren’t getting in line. They weren’t even in solitary evidence.

There were no words at all. They had completely left me. Nothing would take words to my tongue. I heard no speech, saw no signs, and opened book after book to blank pages. I went to the stoop and saw there was no newspaper on the welcome mat. The welcome mat didn’t even say ‘welcome’ anymore.

All that was left were these vague urges crawling in my blood, this wordless sadness. I didn’t, in fact, even know that it was words I was missing, lacking as I did words to articulate or explain their absence. I couldn’t speak at all.

And then I heard Ornette Coleman, and found the first small comfort of the wordless day.