Peace of mind, the student typed, drifts across my synapses like maple syrup. She stabbed the enter key twice and tried again. Peace drifts through the mind. Peace of mind drifted through my synapses like maple syrup. She read the sentences out loud, chose the last as superior, and then copied the line into a new paragraph.
Peace of mind drifted through my synapses like maple syrup, Microsoft word proclaimed objectively. She tossed second handful of words at the screen, savoring the narcissism of autobiography and the thrill of beginning. She was practical enough to realized her triumph was kinesthetic rather than intellectual. The fingertips, she reflected, are the seat of creativity.
In reality peace of mind skirted illusively through her synapses. Aaron wandered through the room strumming a guitar as she reread her paragraphs. “Am I too loud?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, “not as loud as my whispering.” She had already stopped to reread again, and then stare unfocused at the monitor. The music, like maple leaves, rattled her brain. She typed out a few lines of dialogue to reaffirm her task. Tonight she would write-- not spin circles, argue, or absorb the TV. As her rhythm returned, Aaron walked back to the porch to smoke. “I hope you don’t mind my playing.” He apologized again, brandishing both Kona and cigarette. “It’s been really inspired.”
She gnashed her lips. Did she crave inspiration or a cigarette? Rather than reply, she edited the fourth paragraph. By paragraph five, Aaron crossed into the living room without apologizing for the roar of Wii-channel propaganda. The student congratulated herself for writing my synapses. To suggest a planet’s worth of synapses experienced peace as maple syrup seemed ludicrous when confronted with Aaron’s alien habits. She imagined his peace of mind, like inspiration, streamed electric from cerebrum to tongue. She wondered if peace lingered in neurons equipped with modern conveniences. Did it shine brighter or peek longer in a mind inclined to zip, rather than drift? The maple syrup, she typed decisively, dripped slowly to the floor. Careful not to smudge the screen with her sticky fingers, the student pushed her laptop closed. She walked toward the living room. “Aaron, where can I find a towel?"