Write

The urge to write is there, but the words that come are dry. Years of disuse have made them reluctant to do my bidding. Yet the parched words seem ready for that little spark to set them afire. That little bit of inspiration that will change this trickle into an uncontrollable flood surging toward the infinity of the ocean.

Words have been rushing through my head, not letting me rest ever since you told me that I should write. "Write anything", you said. But I cannot harness this chaotic stream into coherence, and all that appears from the pen in my hand is a series of disconnected thoughts. It is exhilarating to have this pent-up force within me, but infinitely frustrating that I cannot.... I do not know what it is that I wish to do with these words.

And the chaos grows.

How does it feel to write something of significance? The picture in my head is that of a man tearing through the heavens on the back of a dragon. He holds on for all he's worth, but he hasn't the faintest idea of where he's going or how he got on the dragon in the first place. All he knows is that he will not survive if he does let go.

I imagine that it is exhausting to write that "significant" piece of work for I believe that the work will become everything that you are. Something from you must go irretrievably into those words so that even when you recover from the effort, you will never be the same.

Estranged

You understood me, and I understood you.
Every word meant more than it said,
And the silence wasn't empty.

You understand my words, and I understand yours.
The dictionary describes every word,
And the silence is true.

Why? Oh why?

Inanities

How are you?
I'm fine, how are you?
How's work?
Isn't it nice outside.....

AARGH!

A Beautiful Day

Awake to the sound of birds singing,
Breakfast to the hymns of children,
To work under the bluest blue,
Tea under the trees,
Lunch with friends,
Every problem solves itself,
The sun sets in a pretty pink,
Ride home to dinner
and a comfortable bed.