My writing cap is on backwards, or so it's felt like lately. Sometimes the words come on their own and I'll have to to do is bask in their light and let the letters form on the page as softly as shadows. Or the words come like water, or whatever else(more) that flows downward in waves copious, and unbidden.
But lately, the words don't come. I have to extract them and set them in their rows one by one as mismatched as pulled teeth. I'm a mason with broken fingers stuck with a bad batch of bricks. The words are hard, particulate, and awkward to wield. Gravity wants to pull it all down. When I stand back from what I've written and survey, it's as exciting as plaster on lathe.
I start thinking the about the wrong things. I second guess. I question the value of trying at all. There are builders, I say to myself, who create much finer things. This is true, I rejoinder, but not a reason for me not to try at building my own walls and monuments.
The weather will change, the words will fall from the sky again. Meanwhile, I can cut and stack the stone, inexpertly, to build the basins that will catch them.(less)
After winter had come and gone, it left a palpable trail of both quiet longing and vague hopefulness in its wake. The people slowly started venturing out, one by one, to bask in the sun - something foreign after abstaining from its rays for so long.
(more) Recalling those eyes, I see in the window of my mind a strange, malleable beauty, something constantly shifting and polarizing. Underneath the cool laissez-faire is an iron forged will, burning like hot embers, undressing my learned routines and carefully crafted ego.
I remember watching her stir her coffee delicately. The cafe was abuzz with lazy conversation and laughter, but the two of us remained somber behind our respective brews. She poured mounds of sugar into her cup and stirred. She loved to stir. I am still convinced that she stirred out of spite and not from nervousness or any other reason.
We said goodbye to winter and ushered in springtime. Together, but separately. It was the last time I saw her, and while recalling exactly what was said has proven to be a difficult feat, I remember every exact glance as if it were burned into my nerves like photographic paper. It certainly is strange how two people can carve out such cozy niches together, like sacred treehouses, only to abandon them as suddenly as they built them.
That April night, it began to snow. It was thick snow that coated tires up to the halfway mark. It all seemed backwards. Spring, the bastard, was full of tricks. It was sunny the day before with the birds chirping and the sun illuminating her hair. That night, I walked to the station with my hands in my jacket pockets and my footprints quickly being buried in powdery snow. A cold midnight vigil, it seemed like.(less)