old friend

Saw you today

Time passes, I am waiting by the phone

Waiting to hear your voice, to hear your tone across the phone

And I don’t even like you, but the pain of life without you is biting

I miss your laugh, the way we get along so famously

I miss our obsessive confessions, and our addictive pretentious behaviors

I miss your silent stature, your avoided days of disaster, your present state of distress

I’m cinnamon, cloves and fire, you are the rested cedarwood of desire

I miss our opposing views and how we laughingly dispute

Now I feel my heart throb, because I love you like a sister loves her blood

Each drip that bleeds, reminder of our girlhood days

The nights spent in our tree’s

A day spent with dares and prestigious childhood adventures

This tear can’t keep the gift of memory from me

that’s the moment

“I wanted to write about the moment when your addictions no longer hide the truth from you. When your whole life breaks down. That’s the moment when you have to somehow choose what your life is going to be about.”

-Chuck Palahniuk

constantly composing

Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.

alone

“Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener’s aunt is in the house.”

-W. Somerset Maughaam

not easy to write

“No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.”

-Clarice Lispector

writers, don’t speak…

Writers, they don’t say much to your face. They hide behind their pen. They will write you the most wicked and hateful words that non-writers would never dream of speaking.

But us writers……

we can get away with it.

Our tongues can’t compete with the rapid thinking of our brains, our words come out slow and slurred. The pen is our haven. There is a lot of fear buried into that little pen. It holds all of our agony, our torment, our blood and our heaven.

We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the love…embodying our stories page after page.  In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.

Σε λατρεύω

you.