Member-only story
To Write
It is a strange space,
That a writer occupies.
Gazing intensely from afar
Detached from the bubble
But transfixed by it all the same
Bonded by curiosity.
Is it the silence we yearn for?
A meandering stream through a soft meadow
A clear quiet mind
To hear our voice
A star-filled vista
To inspire a reverie
The calm and the longing
Dancing with time
Back and forth
Up and down
And deep within.
Do we chase the novelty?
The sweet nectar of creation
Worlds of clay and matter
Dust and derision
Tears and a vision
Churning the current
And charting our course.
Do we hide in this vacuous space,
That transcends time?
A place of surrender and control
Of dreams and nightmares
Questioning and searching
Climbing and circling
Like vultures in the desert heat
Free falling in the small hours
Drowning in thoughts
A spectre of inadequacy lingering in the foreground.
Are we seeking validation?
Hope-filled mornings and endless platitudes
Lusty illusions of grandeur
Shaking ourselves off
Restarts and refreshes
Turning back and retreating
The wallowing and the disconnect
Roaming where others do not
Seeing what others will not
Pushing past the pain
Lost in words and meaning
Realms of colour and emotion
Magic and mysticism
Passion, darkness and fear
Symmetry and arc
Master of puppets.
Simmering cups of tea on coffee-stained tables
Scraps of paper and empty pages
Ideas of worth and valour
Under leaden skies and dreary days
Inside and alive
Following the…
