Manix

A picture floats into my inbox, alphabet avenues on just another ordinary Monday and this is what life is. My heart skips a beat, counts down days, calculates hours. How soon I’ll touch your streets again. Today I sat in a sunny window and cried - again - at the closing chapters of a book
I never seem to finish, of a story that I want so much to do justice, as though it mattered. We sat later drinking wine and I thought this is what I came here to do. Now it is done, and it was the strangest feeling but perhaps it was just the alcohol soothing my anxious veins.

Today I sat in a sunny window and knew - again - that the Word was magic and that just one minute in its sunshine is worth a hundred weeks of work. I forget, sometimes, but how easy it is to remember. Today I wrote a story that I think perhaps is is not entirely dreadful, and what a gift that was, if only to me. Tomorrow, the work begins anew.

That’s okay, too.