April 26, 2013
Free. Writing. Priming the pump, scattering paper with ink, doing it just so as to think more easily upon words. My daily task. Soul's bread, mind's flask —strong enough to lull self-doubt to sleep. Like liquor's creep into the blood, poetry's soothing. I wake to the moment of living in the movement of proving I can. Stretch out again. Put pen to work, without the prod of fear against my spine; rake rightly aligned the angled embers of my mind. Without the cool draught of hope, the flame is lost. We all are, without hope, at whatever the cost. So I write through until doing's barely enough; just doing's scant helping of hope in the cup. For in hope we're all beggars: reliant both on what we don't know, and what's been known to hurt us before. Hope isn't any thing, but an act: movement itself like pushing, or pulling, a pen, across blank expanses waiting again and again.
Posted by delire at April 26, 2013 08:05 AM