Writing is taking a little a photograph to capture a moment’s thought or mood or rhyme. Round and round ideas often swim in the head. Some days they crystallize perfectly and the words assemble themselves to form coherence. Good little soldiers, off to battle. More than anything they are auditory. They are perfect in cadence, in rhythm.
Some days they won’t sit still, flirting beyond grasp. The ache as they slip away is cotton-mouthed drunken frustration.
But there’s always comfort in the click of the keys, as the letters line up in formation. The dark lines slip and slide on the white sheet, there they lay, little babies fast asleep.
Gone are the days when words come in cheap comfort. It is more difficult now to write from the gut. Age tempers everything. Age makes one careful, circumspect, measured. How I miss now, the sureness of youth. When the things that matter are painfully crystal and all else recede in the shade.