This is the part where I get introspective. Bear with me.

Imagine walking in fog. That’s what it’s like, knowing enough for a few steps, but not enough for ten thousand. Steps are like days, and days are like plot turns.

Hang on. No really, I mean it. Let me crouch it in euphemism: the edge is merely a plain waiting for soil and gravity (and every disappointment is cause to write a book).

This is why you don’t stop looking - I think - why you can close your eyes - I also think - why you sift the wind for waves - I think yet again - why I broadcast.

You can count on this: poetry. Not particularly accomplished or ground down to structure and facet, but words strung together like water, like sand on the tongue.

This is the part where I weave my fingers together and press down. Beat with me.

Tags: ruminations