Early mornings in Brooklyn, the sun returns and you believe again in forward momentum. The lilacs are in bloom, their scent blankets the cobblestoned streets with visions of childhood summers and optimism. I woke this morning to a black and white picture of an impossible miracle, her due date is Thanksgiving, I guess it means something. I spent all my wishes on this tiny gift, it doesn't matter if I'm broken, so long as she is whole. Did you not hear me in that quiet house by the river when everything had turned to ash? This is the heart I was asked to own, I will collect these shooting stars for you forever, such is life.
The day caught up with the early risers at last, busying the streets and filling the little coffee shop where a small group sat in the back plowing through literary mountains of our own making. Quietly the magic began to evaporate, quietly business casual filled my line of vision and yelled about to do lists, I longed for the cocoon again where nothing exists but words, my words, this purpose which has extinguished everything else around me. The truth is it's hard for me to regret the fire.
It must mean something that I am still here,
when everything else is gone.
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Sifting through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way.
About Me
- Cajsa
- "If I can go to New York, live madly, and write. I will want for Nothing."
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