Cursor blinking, how bright the screen is when empty, when no words fill it. I have been staring at it for what seems like hours, mind racing, body overrun by words and scattered fragments of feelings, in need of literary arrangement in order to be released. And yet nothing.
How trite words will seem when forced, how obvious the hidden intentions. As though I could paint a different sunset and believe myself in the process.
I pack my easel, my palette, and I pick up my pen. The world in which the cursor lives is not the Real one, my stories always brushed and color-corrected. In ink, I've no need for embellishment, for secrecy. I forget, sometimes. Remembering, I am instantly relieved. The words begin to trickle.
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Your journal writing is something I will always love about you. :-)
ReplyDeleteHoney, I knew you'd get it :) (and do you know I still sign my entries "Skittles"?! some things never change :) )
ReplyDeletexoxo