it’s listlessness, looking out over a sea of words, a storm of syntax brewing.
i swirl a puddle of language aimlessly. the words don’t come, won’t come. i worry they never will; i wish they never would.
it’s not until lightning strikes my heart that ink overflows into writing, words spilled out, the mess of them unveiled, scattered uneven across the page. they dance their way into being, heart pounding like an ancient brass knocker on a wooden door.
this is life, and it feels like it’s just begun.