deep breath,
followed by many shallower breaths.
one after
the other
until it stops feeling like work.
you have to keep going,
but you don't have to pay such close attention.
it has been a transition time, and
in the interim, I seem to have forgotten how to be expansive.
sometimes it's nice to write without thinking of rhythm, of music; to hear without focusing; to let things wash over instead of getting stuck inside. sometimes the shape of the guitar silent against the wall is enough, even when the strings are still.
a wind chime, a heartbeat, sneakers on railroad tracks. the world is alive and I am alive, too; more than the mere sum of my choices and my mistakes, more than silhouette against landscape.
the air, lately, seems charged with intention, just the way it seems to swell before lightning strikes. like the deep inhalation before a long, quavering note the world is holding its breath...
...and I am a snake in the grass, ready, once more, to shed my skin.
followed by many shallower breaths.
one after
the other
until it stops feeling like work.
you have to keep going,
but you don't have to pay such close attention.
it has been a transition time, and
in the interim, I seem to have forgotten how to be expansive.
sometimes it's nice to write without thinking of rhythm, of music; to hear without focusing; to let things wash over instead of getting stuck inside. sometimes the shape of the guitar silent against the wall is enough, even when the strings are still.
a wind chime, a heartbeat, sneakers on railroad tracks. the world is alive and I am alive, too; more than the mere sum of my choices and my mistakes, more than silhouette against landscape.
the air, lately, seems charged with intention, just the way it seems to swell before lightning strikes. like the deep inhalation before a long, quavering note the world is holding its breath...
...and I am a snake in the grass, ready, once more, to shed my skin.
