There have been moments in my life where writing has been as simple as breathing. An inhalation of a spontaneous idea has exhaled through my pencil and onto paper in the form of words. It is those moments, while often far and few between, which propel me forward. When the darkness befalls, dressed in fear, taunting me that skill, talent or even perseverance are all just make believe and that I’ve no right to move or be moved by the power of the written word; I breathe. I breathe in the memories of a poem I wrote that hangs on my mothers’ wall or a simple sample of words that captured a friends feelings and I remember that perhaps there is no skill or talent, but there is absolutely perseverance.
Some days, the act of breathing alone is conjured purely by perseverance.
Her pages had been empty of late, left in a drawer under sharpened pencils. Dust was settling around ornaments of inspiration, clock ticking around her motivation. Excuses piled up, leaking on to the floor like dishwater.
It was not a reflection of her ability, but of her effort.
Her thoughts went dark: to a place that bared no window. There was no air to provide her food for thought: she was settled. Into a dust that had fought a storm, a dust that rested on a ground of lost adventures. She was done. She was defeated. Arms splayed for forsakenness, she had to remind herself of her needing: who would call her name as she turned to sand? Who would cup her into a vase and carry her across the desert to a cool salvation? Who would hold her, until her true end?
Only time could hold her.
Maybe he scribbles on his arms because mummy and daddy are covered in scribble. Maybe he does it because it tickles as the tips run along his soft, bare skin. Maybe, just maybe, he does it because he keeps being told to draw on paper, and paper is just a flat, boring surface that doesn’t tickle and doesn’t look like mummy and daddy. Either way, it’s a step up from drawing on all the walls.
I can think of far worse things to trouble myself over.
For example, flies in my wine.
She stumbled upon her truth: falling forward and spilling her wine. Unsure at first what it was, what dare trip her up while she toddled through the house dreaming into gulps. Her eyes scanned the room at the piles of clothes and the scattered toys, the buzzing dishes and the dusty exercise bike until her gaze met her feet and there it was:
She’d need more wine.
She worked her way backwards: bumping into no through roads. The rounded edges of a cul-de-sac kept her spinning: never quite sure when to take exit. Standing still in a thoroughfare she bumped shoulders with the world.
She never was very good at reading signs.
Her hands twitched pleasingly as she grabbed at the memory of sand sifting through her fingers. The distance felt immeasurable as she bathed in an ocean too far from her body. Washing her bones in the dream of unruffled waters, she watched the horizon of her nightmares envelop the ocean and steal it from her: toes scratching at the concrete.
Captive to land life: