Sometimes I try to write something good, but all the words come out as pretzels, all twisted and brittle.

Writing feels like my most tenuous talent. Not something I can summon, but more like a spark I wait patiently and impatiently for. Scribbling pretzels page to page, waiting for a full fledged meal to come out, something to nourish and satisfy.

What is the goddess of eloquence? The deity of perfect word placement? I will pray to you. Bleed my ink at your alter. I’ll burn my best letters for you.

I would like to say something meaningful. I would like to mean something. I would like someone else to feel a feeling from something I have made. I can not yell very loud. I can not sing. I can only hope to quietly cast the perfect words forth and hope these ordinary words, in such arrangement, form a magic spell.

I would like to catch the precious thoughts before they pop like soap bubbles. Just now, I felt one, a good one, a good idea brush past my forehead, I felt the flutter of its wispy fabric. It is gone now. This is all I have.

cori storb photography


~ by warpaintandwandering on March 24, 2015.

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