The old-one returned to his rack, he began to write his thoughts. He would write, and then pause. During the pause, his face was almost void of expression, placid, almost tranquil; he would begin to write again. What was he writing? To whom and what about those questions the old-one would answer in his own good time. He sat back, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and wrote. The words poured from the old-one like wine spilling from a bottle. The torrent of words running across the page; line by line, then as quickly as he started he stopped. He thought. You could see him thinking, wondering, and pondering. He thought, “It is a very odd feeling to have these hidden emotions rise and be laid bare before my very eyes.
Popping to the surface of the brain with a splash and a turgid boil the memories, like an emergence, the birth of emotions, which had lain dormant for many years. The old-one wrote, capturing these thoughts and the feelings that began to awaken him.
His feelings unwound, stretching, searching for their place, in his heart and in his mind, they pushed the shadows out of existence. The old-one stopped writing. He stared into space seeing everything and nothing. He never wanted these feelings to take flight. He had to free them; he had to free them into that gilded cage, known only to him as his heart.