Typing away with my bedroom window open because it feels and smells exactly like springtime even though it isn’t. I’ve just poured my second cup of coffee and it is so early in the predawn morning that you would think I’m a psycho especially given that today is a Saturday and I’ve nothing to be up for except my own little self and my own little earnest though disjointed words. I don’t know if I will get to record this one even though reading aloud is one of my very favorite things to do creatively. My beloved is still asleep in the next room and I bet even with my whispery morning voice he would hear me through the two thick walls murmuring about some such nonsense which he leaves me to and doesn’t ever intrude.
It’s weird with the writing. It’s a bit wiry these days like it wants to be something completely renaissanced from what it once was. Everything I used to feel is changing in ways I am entirely unable to predict and sometimes unable to even comprehend. It’s like there is a star out there I am following and no one can see it but me and even though I sort of know that is the case I still wish rather desperately to tell about it because it is in the telling of the story that the story itself, the journey of the thing, becomes real and tangible and enters into my conscious realm of awareness. I know it’s early. I’m sorry but this is how it is now. I get up early all the days and go to bed early all the nights because I am legit tired and I can sleep now like a sweet small wooly lamb. Everything is early as though I am an animal creature who syncs her cycles to the sun and moon and seasons and I love it and it’s ridiculous and I don’t care.
The ways in which I am bending and disrupting patterns and times and habits and grooves is obscene and the rest of the world may even say it is ill advised because it might awaken the parts of me which they have tried to kill off all this time. But I digress, please forgive me. I am the newest tiny bursting wet seed. All alone in my bed high above the earth looking out at the softly blue marbling sky of late winter and feeling like a clean set of white cotton sheets. Taut and fresh and pristine yet cozy and warm and inviting to the barest of skin.
Oh yes, though, the writing. I want to be heard but then I don’t want to be heard. It’s like you want to reveal it all but then you want to hold back because if you spill too much what is left for yourself? I think a lot and the caffeine does or doesn’t help depending on how you look at it but the coffee must happen because coffee is the highlight of the day, hands down. The coffee and the words and the birds chirping away out the window singing songs on the sweet sweet wind of a season promised but still yet to come.