Archive for May, 2009

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May 26th, 2009

Words trapped inside. My fingers refuse to type, refuse to move. My jaw locks. My fists tighten. I stare at the blinking cursor and curse it. The little box, devoid of words, mocks me.

Characters weave in my head, teasing me. “Write, write!” they chant, but in a traffic jam – they all cram together at the exit and no one can get out. Even as the flames of creativity burn behind them, they remain motionless.

It is those times I feel most vulnerable. Safety in words, comfort in typing, and when blocked I’m blocked. Locked inside my own head, a prisoner of my own making. Who writes the writer?

But then, then I write about not being able to write, and I sigh with relief as the words flow. Unstuck.

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in sleep

May 22nd, 2009

We move in awkward circles, avoiding regret-filled eyes and cold touches. We speak little, knowing how hollow our words sound to long-neglected hearts. After the day, we lay together in our little bed. Weary. Guarded. The rift becomes an ocean, uncrossable. So close together, so far apart.

But when sleep takes us, our bodies close the gap. We move together, tangle together. The fires rekindle and flare. Sometimes, our lips touch and our hearts go supernova. Hands caressing, undressing, possessing. Breath ragged, quiet sounds escaping, and for the moment we are connected.

When the nighttime passes, so does the moment. Old fears and bitter sorrows creep back in, and the gulf between us widens. I rise, moving away so he cannot see the tears in my eyes.

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storyseeds

May 13th, 2009

She sat in the window watching the sun dip. When it finally vanished, she rose. Opening the back door, she began singing. Without interruption, she gathered her watering can and filled it from the spring. Her gentle voice flowed down into the garden, encouraging the little seedlings.

They pushed up through the soil, reaching toward the silver moonlight, opening, blooming under her patient gaze. She walked through them tenderly, gingerly, sprinkling water and song, love and magic upon them. Slowly, she came to the end of the garden. She sat on the little bench and surveyed her work.

The little stories were blossoming. She could hear the beginnings of each one, mixing together and pulling apart, weaving and twisting. They were coming along nicely.

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