I am sincerely sorry for being an absentee in my own life. You probably don't know me or even care about my existence, nor do you find relevance in my apologetic attempt to reconcile my fruitlessness. But I feel strongly compelled to apologize for my stagnation:

I come from a pond across the way from you. A stowed away break in the trees where the sun only shines for a brief time at noon and disappears for the rest of the day. The birds don't sing their song of sixpense, nor do the fish splash or the frogs belch their symphony. Even the crickets scream as loud as the mimes at the circus. For nothing enters and nothing leaves, so why do you even bother?

I only write to you for what could have been, and pray for forgiveness for what hasn't been. I understand that the act of "what if"s is a waterfall of tears cascading into an abyss, but I find that this journey is a necessary evil.

So what if I made a splash today in my pond, the ocean of things that I can actually control. Sent ripples across the pond and stirred the fish into commotion. The frogs join in the chaos with their symphony  and maybe the crickets, after hearing the low bass of croaking, decide to join in with their rhythm that awakens the birds from their deep slumber. In response, the birds spring up with their joyous melody and the ensemble of nature creates an exuberant noise in a previously dull and dim place. Such a thought that one tiny splash can dictate a tremendous ensemble, such that if you took your thoughts off of your own life for a split second you could possibly be splendidly surprised by burst of nature from an insignificant source. Such small fractions of life can create mesmerizing sound waves that make you a little happier today.

It seems so simple to create, just a whispering splash. Yet I have failed to create a single note that is audible to the outside world.

There are two plausible reasons for my plight: Either the noise I attempt to create is so insignificant to the outside world that more significant amplifications exceed my own capacity to make sound or the world is just simply not listening anymore.

No matter how many times you cry out, jump up and down in the pond and scream your head off at the world; the ripples aren't forming. The waves don't crash on the shore and one is left standing invisible in the center of a drowning amount of commotion.

And if you are reading this, you are the anomaly that has slipped through the sound barrier to hear this silent song.

Despite being an amateur
paperback writer wannabe,
whose storied protagonist
stars colporteur wannabe
(thinly veiled cover as yours truly),
whereby his antagonistic doppelgänger
donned as a frotteur trumpeting
animalistic, chauvinistic, egoistic,
averse to gradualistic, individualistic...
narcissistic, opportunistic hauteur
with a penchant for littérateur,
whose favorite genres
constitute the blending
(think Louis Pasteur)
of one criminally and mysteriously
hellbent expert pathologist,
whose found role of self chosen prosateur
loosing overactive imagination to guide
and to craft believable scenarios,
whereby provocateur earned himself
title of master raconteur
this side of Schwenksville,
actually a double agent
gussied up as rapporteur,
whose burning side kick
(splitting hairs over being primary
most intrepid gumshoe),
dolled up as a répétiteur
and co-owner as restaurateur
catering to Norwegian bachelor farmers
freshly baked Powder Milk Biscuits,
(cuz heavens they're tasty and expeditious
made from whole wheat that give shy persons
the strength to get up and do
what needs to be done
your family must try them),
and also serving the chattering class,
yet always being affronted
courtesy basket of deplorables,
the whole bunch of rapscallions
nothing but nattering nabobs of negativism
buzzfeeding, growing, and jump/kick starting
wild asparagus and overgrown kudzu
in serious need for secateur
to be placed in the hands
of well muscled olympian shamateur
adroit to handle tools
of the horticultural trade
with both his arms and legs.

I ask myself the following rhetorical question.
How does that hot germ oven idea coalesce
from figment of imagination
to fully fleshed out magnum opus?

Lucky those prospective and potential authors,
who start writing at a young precocious age,
perhaps when in utero,
hearing mellifluous cadences
of punctuated words
courtesy family and friends
(constituting a veritably healthy melting ***
of diverse creed (dancers
fluid in movement as clear water
in attendance at a revival)
ethnicities, genders nationalities,
political stripes with the caveat
(so long as each person
considers him/herself a Democrat)
races, religions, et cetera
comfortably ensconced
and seated within or upon
a cozy environment
of lazy boy chairs, and bean bag pillows,
thus auditorily exposed to countless languages
spoken with various and sundry
naturally uttered modulations and amplifications
particularly homeschooled with access
to online material and tutorials
writing their first of many
New York Times best sellers,
when just a lad or lass.

Bennett Cerf, Theodore Geisel
(otherwise known to children as Doctor Seuss)
Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein,
represent a small number of popular kids writers
during growing up years of mine,
which came to mind courtesy Google search
videre licet list names of children's authors
during the 1960's and 1970's,
when Beatlemania in full swing,
though yours truly
totally oblivious to the fab four,
who burst upon the scene
skyrocketing to fame and fortune.

Ineffable and mindblowing
how ingenious an attention grabbing
an innocuous sounding title
(many times an obscure author
whose book(s) purchased
at Worthwhile Thrift Store
in Collegeville for pennies on the dollar
(more so when color coded tabs
confer discount on certain days,
plus getting that senior discount
knocks the total price even further),
yet within minutes attention of mine riveted,
where I must continue reading
until sleep overtakes me,
or less likely death do me part.