blank page, fresh start.

The words are swirling like a pool of water in the sea.

Swirling, like leaves in a thunderstorm and suddenly the wind sweeps them all in different directions.


The words come together,

like the leaves in the air.

They rise. Form sentences. And then they disappear.

Sometimes onto the page.


Other times they vanish in the endless vast space of my mind.

Until they are re-discouvered, like long lost aunts and cousins.

The making of sentences,

is holy to me.

I need darkness and quiet.

I need the sweet, quietness of sleeping humans.

The sentences, they form,

travel from my mind,

through my fingers,

onto the keyboard.

Appear on the screen.

In a language, not native to my thinking.

And yet, like I didn't even use to think any other way at all.

The vulnerability they hold, the bareness of soft, pinkish baby skin.

Exposed rawness, down to the bones.

Fragile, like a glass ornament on a christmas tree,

ready to be knocked down by the barely mobile toddler. Oh the anxiety.

The anxiety that the words mean something,

not only to me, but the person who reads them.

Who relates in a deeper way than I barely can wrap my mind around.

I tell myself,

these words matter.

I don't know if that is true.

It never changes anything on the sensation I get when the words need to be written.

The words the world needs to hear.

Not because they are pretty, outstanding or perfect,

Because they are true.