Writers carry notebooks. Inconspicuous.
Filled with intriguing scribbles, made while sneaking looks at the dark-eyed girl on the subway.
What if it happens that a bit of thought gets snarled and no pen lies in wait to catch it? What if an urge — a rage — violent — arises, tips over some words and no pen lay near to soak up the shame?
What if we finally fell in love at first sight?
So writers carry notebooks with them. For those moments when napkins are not enough for a piece of ache that needed documentation.
For days filled with people who walk around, wearing their stories on their bodies like sacred scars. Without consent, writers leave them stranded in vast, empty spaces. They draw in the wrinkled lines, darken the shade with lost love.
Carelessly, lose the dreams.
[Image via BTI]
There are days when the mountains wither into dust and the seas boil away,
There are days when it is possible to tear down the mighty skies and stuff its fabric into the earth’s womb.
Life does this.
It waits — quietly lies to the unleashed rage. Dampens the soul;
the singed ashes may pardon, absolve
but it might also choke what it intends to save.
[Image via Grvnge]
There are no hidden diaries filled with distracting secrets. Only beautiful objects that clatter to the floor on touch — accusatory.
It was the chocolate muffin that reminded me of the day’s particular despair. It’s dark brown heaviness clenched, stayed.
Each day is pried loose like a bit of shine gummed up against stone. Each night chiseled jangled nerves like the last tooth inside the hollow of a mouth’s cave.
There’s a moment of give; of unexpected ease. Read into it what you will. The unpacking of each day.
And it’s re-packaging at the end.
[Image via love junkie]