Never underestimate the space between a writer’s pen and the surface of release
Usually what’s birthed isn’t your peace but the author’s ability to bleed out, to cry out, to maneuver the internal seasons
There’re times when the scenes are stenciled with smiles and celebrations, a logging of an occasion
Then there’re clouds that rain blood because tears were to pure
Soaking the salted land with compost filled broken dreams and expectations intertwined with weeded reality
The space shifts. It’s a peaceful doodle resting upon a To Do list.
A scratched out math problem wrapped in a memory of absorbent high school minds.
Empty spaces of time that have rendered a blank page unable to contain the stage of what’s being felt inside.
Even if there is nothing that leaves a mark, know that it’s always connected to something. Something enigmatic to you but soul to its creator.
