Tuesday, June 12, 2012

No revision here

What is a day but a day filled with moments, several, hundreds, thousands.  Moments to feel and taste and experience and hide from and fight and revel in.  I wipe my desk with a cloth, a colorful cloth with flowers and circles, and seek my moment, to feel it and wonder if this is the moment where something comes to me to write.  And it does like the rising of the sun in the morning, to bask me in words and feeling and memory and desire of what could possibly be.  I move into it and sit and write to you and no one at the same time.  Because, really, it doesn't matter who I write to just as long as I write.  It doesn't even necessarily matter if I make sense or wrench truth from my soul or anything just as long as I pull and let go and see what needs to be seen. 

And so I write, whether halting or flowing, I write.