Confession

I have been sitting here trying to write... typing, then deleting.... then drifting to some place I can't quite name... typing... deleting. It's infuriating. I need a break. I need to excise you from my thoughts.

I don't keep a journal now… although in some ways I should save things to write, for later; to stretch and weave into some other fiction. I have always processed my ideas with some form of writing. I kept these little Chinese diaries, with satin covers when I was eleven. Silly, little girl thoughts. Anais Nin kept journals from a young age. Unlike hers, mine are filled with nonsense. Childhood insight neglected those pages.

I waste too much time on mad ramblings, not enough on the bones. Good bones. Bad bones. Anything is better than wishful thinking.

Do you know what it's like to feel the words slip out, know that they are solid and true? Feel the energy sing from fingers to keys, the words falling as quietly as snow... creating that same magic as the first white morning in winter? I have. It's witchcraft. Gorgeously rich and beautiful. Like playing God.

There is this endless dance for the creator. Spinning. Making the vision, willing it into other's imagined reality. Providing the escape.

Do you come here to escape something, or am I enough? Are any of us. I do not want to find the TRUE escape I seek. Or the words will fade... the spells cast by adjectives will be muddied in sunshine and primroses.

Never run fast enough to escape the fire of your passion.

G.