August 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
It’s finally quiet enough for me to flood paper with ink. The weather is clear and above me flows a sky that resembles sea water flowing through a filtration tube. The people walking during the current stillness of the day appear relatively large, as though actors glaring from a billboard. The air is damp, though not more than my nose. I think I’m going to get sick. I see the reflection of a toy on the ground as though its surface were a new mirror. It fascinates me how such shine and cleanliness translates to gratitude from surfaces.
Writers like to write at ease, sometimes stress, often in a mode of a complete overflow of emotions. Yet I, not a writer, am writing whilst not having slept until the sun’s rise – supposedly exhausted after a long day and night, then day, though as of this moment I am all else simply lost in this so called act of ‘writing’. It soothes me to attempt to write about writing because one is often, more than not, compelled to speak or discuss or even participate in that which they are familiar with. I have taken a deep familiarity with writing. These feelings aren’t deemed mutual, however. Writing has abandoned me. Or perhaps I have abandoned him. Writing, if it were to take the form of a sex, is male to me. Because I am in some ways in love with writing.
This is the first time I write in months – this way, in such a format – during such a place and time. It was unaccounted for and untied by deadlines or obligations. It knocked, and I responded. I can see the sun. It looks like the inside of an egg – and I needn’t mention the standard name because if anyone were to read this, they’d know what I’m talking about. You know. I like it when I don’t feel obliged to explain things. Like this.
I am simply glad this happened. After a long wait, you’ve been missed, fellow voice.