October 6, 1997: A Visit to the Dylan Thomas Workshed. The shed is about one hundred yards from the Boathouse where he lived in Wales.
As my search for real meaning in life continued, today in a startling revelation I now know that the astounding secret of creativity had already been recorded. It was then ripped from a desk in a fit of drunken rage, smashed and angrily rolled into a small crumpled form which was then propelled across a darkened room.
... And, there it lay until today!
Upon first observation, it seemed like just an ordinary piece of paper, a small pile of discarded thoughts. What happened next was to be an occurrence that would pass all reasonable understanding. Right before my eyes, on the floor of that locked shed, I swear to you it moved. It was not a big noticeable movement, just a slight whisper of a cool shiver. Then as I continued to watch through that window, movement gave way to motion. This small, ordinary crumpled piece of paper rose off the floor, and began to float as if in a state of suspended animation. It was as if that elusive paper cocoon had transformed itself into beautiful opalescent wings in order to complete the next phase of some mysterious metamorphous. It occupied this position for only a brief moment, and, in a rather odd, peculiar fashion, that hovering object found its' way to a barely noticeable crack in the North wall of the shed. As the paper disappeared, I quickly made my way to the side of the shed and was able to catch one last glimpse as it rose up, higher and higher, beyond the reach of a disbelieving world.
How could an ordinary piece of paper which had been bombarded with caustic words and give only a short life in space, transform itself into something so miraculous? Perhaps it was a lesson that something very common has the unique power to reveal something extremely uncommon, if spirit chooses us to reveal its' essence.
Why had fate been so cruel? What was I to understand from this? The answer, so close, had abruptly disintegrated like a vague recollection of an unrecorded idea. Wasn't it I who truly believed in imagination? I, who doubted not, was now forced to continue asking, "what more can I be, what more can I do?"
As I stood there in quiet contemplation, I couldn't help wondering where that paper would ultimately settle? It was then that I understood! I realized that this would be a life-long journey, initiated by a crumpled piece of paper propelled into space and time, a paper which had been purposely addressed to me, late at night, long ago, in the dim light of a darkened room.