As I lift a white sheet of printer paper from the printer I begin to think.

Think about what I will scratch and stab into the paper.

I lie down on the floor with the paper in front of me.

I get up and pace.

And then I roll around on the ground.

And then I pace some more.

And then I roll some more.

All the while jabbing my head with the eraser side of the pencil.

My mind is a void.

I cannot think.

I struggle with the limits of my mind, and the possibility that those limits may not actually exist.

Finally, I quit pacing, rattling, and rolling.

I have come to a decision.

I streak lines across the page.

Then I draw a “W” at the top of the shape I have just drawn.

I dig my pencil into the fibers of the paper.

And I scratch as if my life depends on it.

All the while I know that because of my pressure on the paper,

I will have pencils to go before I cease.

At long last, I have finished.

I have drawn what is intended as a mountain,

but as others have told me resembles “a triangle with a ‘W’ at the top.”

I have drawn, and I have climbed.

And in telling this story I haven’t yet rhymed.