Scientist

Scientist-

My fingers brush the rough surfaces often. The leather covers flimsy, but eternal. I picture the timeless scribbles of Da Vinci covering the yellowing pages. Left-handed, backwards, around about drawings. So different, odd, and yet one of the most sacred masterpieces of all time.

In all my hours of staring at the leather-bound, lineless journal, not once have I held the weapon. How could I even consider drawing the slender stick of led across the flaky page? Never in a million lifetimes could my scribbles match his wonders.

Sometimes I consider, maybe that is worth enough to put in. Maybe those words I drew together are beautiful enough to dance across those pages.

I shake my head.

The pages stay empty and my ideas stay neatly typed in a folder in documents, where I don’t need to fear the death of the forever pages.