It’s not like I want to write things. It certainly seems that way, and perhaps a little too purple – but hopefully you’ll give some allowance.
Let’s not exalt anything about it either. It’s just a place to sort and shape things that, hopefully, leaves one feeling a little lighter.
If you aren’t writing to feel a little lighter, why write at all? It can be exhausting to enumerate every case, but by the end at least you’ll slather the frost around – however crooked the sponge tower leans. Some sort of “let’s move on” and stop thinking.
There’s a point where, before water freezes, it’s denser. Until all the droplets manuever for a hexagonal structure. Mini-snowflakes stacking toward a hallway palace for ions rolling about.
So with writing there’s a descent sometimes. A blood flow between ancestors and drudge, all carrying the piece you’re to transcribe. Most often one turns into the ink for things already crystallized within. Millisecond decisions superseding any sort of delusions you’re in control.
Wherever the pen glides you can at least observe its flow and composition.
Right now it’s this smouldering restraint. Walking over ravines however rickety the plank bridge shall be. A silent white meadow holding the rope’s end, yet something pulls you to gaze down below.
The same smouldering led toward an isolation: a refusal for any instant messaging, emails or phone calls. I guess there’s still something left unsaid.