I look over and he's writing. His thumbs twiddle away at that intricate keyboard. His mind is his utensil, his own imagination is his inspiration. He's always writing. I wonder what he's writing about? Maybe he took my advice and wrote something about his internal struggles, or what he's feeling right now. Maybe he's continuing that one story that I know he's been working on, and stirring up some crazy sequence of events on that page of his. Hopefully his mind is clear and he's paying attention, or drifting off and accumulating ideas and inspiration. Hopefully he is grinning at the thought of starting a new story. Hopefully his imagination is fresher than ever, and his words flow onto the screen like the waterfalls and rivers that he could possibly be writing about. Maybe he's finally happy, finally free, and maybe he's thinking of me. Wouldn't it be ironic if he was writing about me writing about him writing? Hopefully he is thinking of all the memories we will make, all the memories we've made, all of the people we will meet and have met, the path we are treading and have tread to get where we are. I just hope he's happy.
Anything for him to be happy.
