Once I add a pen to the mix doors open that once were closed. Locked even. No-name characters beg to be applied to every day scenarios that intermingle with the psyche. That luscious and fluid grace that ink provides as it’s being coaxed out of the tip with subtle movement from my hand screams creation in an otherwise gray world.
I can’t wait to play with lucid words and parenthesise my thoughts all while deciding if I want to rhyme or sing the previous word. Symphonic phonics grabs at my tongue. I repeat the words that I scribed like Beethoven felt his notes; with passion, longing, heartache, smiles, desire, and an avidity for all things meaningful.
Sometimes I am called to write long, flowing prose styles and other times my soul grabs at all things lascivious. Either way, a blank piece of paper is so much more that white and blue.
Those thin blue lines dance under my lids and the pure, snow white of the paper invokes dozens of meanings to words I never knew existed prior till now. Happy endings and false pretenses have nothing on what sits enigmatically upon my banister of contemplations.
Playful bantering of synonyms that kiss, and sounds dance to the rhythm of a beat not quite known to them. Writing is such a rapture of mine I could never abandon it. I have to write to survive. I have to gather all the emotions and thoughts that I feel or I’ll surely go mad. If they never see the light of a book’s binding, I’m fine with that. They live on blank pieces of paper that mean nothing to another, yet everything to someone else.