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Words Don’t Wait

Posted on October 21, 2020

Funny thing about writing–once you shift from seeing your days as minutes and hours to moments and emotions, you get no say in who, what, where, when, and why story fragments show up.đź“šTrying to stop the words until you’re ready, with paper, pencil, peace, and a perfectly poured cup of coffee only makes them tumble […]

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Looks like poetry wanted to come out during this morning’s 4am #morningpages session 🤷‍♀️
3.1.21//3.25 mi
On Rock Bottom
I know this ruins the gentle nature aesthetic of my page, but there are some mornings when you wake up still in a dream you never thought possible and want to linger in that dreamy space forever.
Memory is fickle. When you want to remember something--the smell and taste and shape of a story, it retains what it can for a little while, but ever so slowly and subtly begins to shift the happening into something more of a math problem--adding and subtracting bits and pieces, dividing or multiplying time--so that when you think back to the original moment you wanted to tuck away in your box, it’s still there, but the square corners around it have blurred into a circle, and where it fit in the time-space continuum has repositioned. Was it in late summer, when sweltering August afternoons triggered migraines, or when you set up the only Christmas decoration that year, the pre-lit, circle-tinsel-tree-on-a-pole that you left plugged in around the clock? Were you tired from cleaning the fucking pool again (the one you never swam in), or from binging Game of Thrones? Did you actually take a nap and wake up, or were you drowsy on the edge of sleep?
There is pleasure in the pathless woods//there is rapture in the lonely shore//there is society where none intrudes//by the deep sea//and music in its roar//I love not Man the less//but Nature more—Lord Byron
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