All of my possessions help me to remember things, moments, which are unforgettable. The smell of sea salt on seaweed, the way my roses perch in the morning, the way each rock is as heavy as my burdens, yet the color of them is what makes them unique, even beautiful.
Thoughts are pressed like ice cubes against my lips, when they are too naive to come to conclusion they evaporate, like a glass of water in desert heat, like the undoing of burdens held in my bones, like a glass of bourbon on Hemingway's desk. The thoughts evaporate, and exactly then, is when I know, it is once again, time to write. I pull all of the papers from my trash can, smooth out the wrinkles in the sketch of my words, hurl a pencil between my teeth, and then, ponder every thought I have ever had.....writing for me, is therapy!
Thoughts are pressed like ice cubes against my lips, when they are too naive to come to conclusion they evaporate, like a glass of water in desert heat, like the undoing of burdens held in my bones, like a glass of bourbon on Hemingway's desk. The thoughts evaporate, and exactly then, is when I know, it is once again, time to write. I pull all of the papers from my trash can, smooth out the wrinkles in the sketch of my words, hurl a pencil between my teeth, and then, ponder every thought I have ever had.....writing for me, is therapy!
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