And so, I let emotions pour out of my head; turn their energy into a sprawling expanse of language and letters, felt the pen meld with my mind as I made friends with uncertainty and loquaciousness, imagined how it would be upon a star.
With that, I let the clouded new moon shine onto my windowsill, inviting me to sit for a while and discuss the transient quality of the sweet, silent rose, the brevity of words when so many are needed; all the while I dusted off the fatigue-enshrouded library that fills my mind.
Why? He said when I described my issue- this issue of penmanship, a love for words so deep that my pen becomes a knife, a saber, a sword, cutting my soul into small bits, finding the dwellings underneath, but stitching together a world of entirely new making; words come faster and faster, too quickly for just a pen in hand and somehow, I get buried blissfully underneath syllables and ideas and ink smears and possibilities until I realize suddenly, I'm not breathing air. I'm breathing life.
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