April 19, 2009

• Thinkings

  I don't know where my words went. Writing is an art, like any other art, like a geyser that operates on its own schedule. Art happens regardless. Met a man at a book festival this weekend, a musician in his forties. Typical artist. Confident, quirky, observant. "It's like a fountain". Art is like a fountain he says. But my fountain has dried up. I love to write. Think about it daily in some form. Not in an artistic kind of way, but I write in my head. Everyday. Just like I dream every night. But I don't write. Not on paper, not with a keyboard. Nothing, no record of what I've written, except for my memory. Some of that stems from lethargy, fatigue. But much more of it seems related to the jumbled nature of my mind. Bits and pieces everywhere. Thinkings. All about love and traveling and look that tree is beautiful like a poem, but I don't write poems so it'll be beautiful but I won't say how. It used to be so much easier to write. Even if it wasn't linear then, it existed. Nothing exists in my head the way I want it to, but I suspect that's the best way for it to exist these days.

  • 9:56 pm
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