I’ve been trying to write for months. to pick up a pen and splatter my insides on paper. carve out the loss like its changeable and take away pains’ power. I’ve been trying to cultivate sentences out of ghosts, never realizing the crimson spilling onto the parchment was mine. I was the ghost. when I stopped seeing only the loss, the emptiness moved aside to show what’s been lingering there, it was already written gracefully, just waiting for me to find the pen which would, in turn, reveal myself.
there’s something about the breeze of fall sweeping past, it flutters deep within like leaves in a whirlwind. like falling in love. like moving from the place you’ve always been to someplace new. it’s the feeling of completion, of peace, of something within you changing, transforming. it’s that feeling of september. of clarity. of an unexpected becoming home.
at night is when I create. it’s when the mind is “supposed to” rest but mine explores the realm of reality and fantasy. it’s when I question life and it’s capabilities, it’s limits and boundaries. it’s when I question myself. at night is when the stories unravel, the great ideas take place, the thoughts that provoke desires and dreams. at night is when my mind is most wrapped in chaos and my words are never more clear. night is for sleep. no. night is for the touch between two bodies, the release of souls, the kiss, the movement by music, the creation of art, the clarity of life, the defining moments, and profound choices. at night are our desires, our insecurities, our fears, our honesty, injected into our sleep in the form of dreams and nightmares so in the morning we have a little more knowledge, a little more direction, a little more peace, a little more clarity.