At times it seems that if I don’t write, my core will burst in a silent explosion contained within a white-washed face and vacant expression. Inside me, tension builds into a boiling blister in want of a voice, whose instrument of burst is my pen, my keyboard and the freedom they allow me.
Yet, in light of my aforementioned recent bout of writer’s block, I find myself worried that a lack of literary fluidity will take a toll on my sense of balance. As a result, I am much less concerned by the fact that any writings I have produce of late have been rambling. If sprawling sentences and disconnected discourse is what it takes to get words out and onto the page, so be it.
Thus, for the meantime, tight thesis papers shall be sacrificed for erratic sixty-second sketches drawn by my mind’s eye and thinly sewn into a scattered semblance of my state of mind.

Out the window of a second floor Silver center lecture hall I watch and old man sitting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, his navy blue crewneck clashes against the deadened yellow leaves left littered about, piled up against green trash bins, and gathered about the legs of benches. My navy sweatered subject holds his balding head in his hands, leaning forward and to his side, body propped upon the bench’s armrest. I wonder if he is cold – his picture is so pleasing from my place in this college classroom so far removed and I must remind myself of my own freedom, the fact that, should I so desire, I could leave this class to sit beside my balding man, whiling away long hours amongst carelessly discarded coffee cups, squirrels, and pigeons, all within a frame of falling yellow leaves.