It's all greek to me.
There may come a day when it is not enough to touch you with words. In the meantime, I choose them carefully and recklessly. I look for the curves and the pulse in the language and try to wrap something around you that will warm you and cause your soul to arc, your spirit to spark.
Yours and mine, God knows.
Look deep down your hollow belly inside and ask yourself in the dark if it's true: does any of this really make any difference at all? Is the skin that separates your beating heart from mine really just the smoothest kind of barbed wire?
Wait. Just how alone are we anyway?
So what if I dream about keeping a journal with you? Would that make me your audience and you mine? We would write our secret universes within and so far only love can make me lift a pen anyway.
So here goes.
You have to pick up the pen and move it, she whispers.
You have to leave a crumbtrail of words or you'll never find your way back. You have to step out into the words a hungry orphan and hold hands with someone along the way. You have to be as good to words as you know how and some night when you least expect it you'll find them being good to you. Even later you'll learn to trick yourself into believing someone cares.
She looks away. Oh yeah, one more thing. Inspiration comes afterward, not before.
Still ripping handfuls of pages out of my past and calling it music,
Writer's Block #1
The Grey Ghost