Sometimes it’s like working in a graveyard, writing, shuffling dead words like dry bones, grey on white. Creating pretty shapes and transient meanings –
Beating still time in the hot stale air of my mind. Every word moving me further away from the target…
Sometimes the page is flat. Sometimes it’s a tardis. An outer expression of an inner world, it’s entrance (like me) shopfront unremarkable, it’s objective correlative, the universe, my mind.
Appearing words (worlds?) unconsciously, projecting them onto this portal page, which holds them safe and when time aligns, embeds them in the mind of the other. The other then living a thousand lies (lives?) in new worlds of their own imagination…
Do I make any enduring meaning, swooning in this play of creation?
What truly matters can’t be expressed in words. And yet, neither can it be reached without them.
Sometimes it’s like working in a graveyard, writing, but sometimes it’s like dabbling in heaven.