Becoming a Philosopher.
Liquid black sweats from pen to paper.
The wise woman, her soul opaque.
Judgemental eyes sear through her mind.
Nothing.
The clock continues to click.
The years continue to pass by gently.
But no words may she utter.
No knowledge great enough to be spoken…
…to be heard.
She has one thought whilst one has one million.
Though her thought much deeper, more consise, comprehended.
Scratching the surface of intellect.
A breakthrough.
One thought incomplete and broken,
damaged by years of abuse.
A sigh that would rattle shakespeare’s bones.
Silence.
A clock is ticking near but far away,
whilst in her mind she becomes a philosopher.
