Dan Djurdjevic

I put pen to paper, scratching furiously in blue ink lines, smudging, crossing, looping. I pause to look out the window where I see one child on a bicycle, another bouncing a ball. A door slams and I go back to the words, legions of them in thumbed, curling pages, each page embossing the next. I hear laughter from the lounge and want to shut it out, fall into my own my silent world, creep between the cold, thin sheets. Yet I am torn: I also want to share in that laughter, to close the notebook to which my hand is glued. All the while my hand keeps racing – ideas, thoughts, remembrances colliding in indigo. Copyright © 2009 Dejan Djurdjevic