Dry
I told myself I wanted to keep writing; I liked this sense of being able to tap into that place within, where I can pull feeling out by chaining together individual characters.
Not those characters, not those individuals who touch and change me. The smaller ones, though no less insignificant. The characters that align in meaningful ways to form meaning. Letters. Words.
My paper journal has been in my bag for weeks, but I haven't picked up a pen. Tonight I recounted the story with the writer and here I am. As I told the story the feelings of that night welled up inside, and from that emotion comes the motion of fingers on keyboard.
I know I have a distinct way of writing; it's always recounting the current moment and I never quite find out what is behind that door I'm reaching for. Never see beyond what the mirror reflects. I can only use words to describe what I DON'T know, its never a vehicle to share what I hope to find.
Can that change? If this feeling is what's within, can I find the words to capture what I deep down hope to uncover?
Not those characters, not those individuals who touch and change me. The smaller ones, though no less insignificant. The characters that align in meaningful ways to form meaning. Letters. Words.
My paper journal has been in my bag for weeks, but I haven't picked up a pen. Tonight I recounted the story with the writer and here I am. As I told the story the feelings of that night welled up inside, and from that emotion comes the motion of fingers on keyboard.
I know I have a distinct way of writing; it's always recounting the current moment and I never quite find out what is behind that door I'm reaching for. Never see beyond what the mirror reflects. I can only use words to describe what I DON'T know, its never a vehicle to share what I hope to find.
Can that change? If this feeling is what's within, can I find the words to capture what I deep down hope to uncover?