A blank page, among other things, poses the question of what do you have to say? Well, what do you have to say? What laudable piece of magic do you have to give your audience? May they, and it, be worthwhile. There are too many claimed creators and not enough creation. Too many watchers, paralyzed with perceived normalcy, weighted with the inability to fucking hear. But that’s neither here nor there. What? I run round the altar of the gods seeking shelter, supplication, sympathy. They give me the tools that I was born to possess: thought, diligent action, a smile, arms that can carry the heaviest of loads.
A storm spends the day creeping across this valley. Mountains come and go like wit in a conversation. Lines of electricity, balanced on wooden poles that jut into the sky, run themselves into the dreams of your future. I walk into the evening. Snow dusts a world of sage, asphalt, and language. Clouds move off the hills with a wink — smoke sucked out of room from beneath a door. The air is dark and wet, feeling in your lungs like a thousand mornings of bitter coffee that do nothing to brighten the stain of gray out the window. I rejoice because blessing is knowing that this is the 5th day of May and soon enough we will see the sun. It will make us forget hot teas and blasted hours spent thinking cold thought(s). We cannot lose.
There are stars out my window so bright and precious that they rival the days best conversations, melting the weakest that they main drain like rainwater to the seas. The moon is glimpsed these last three nights not when you lay your head down to sleep, but when you lift it in that precious midnight that has no beginning, no end. Sometimes it is yellow and framed by clouds the color of dirty English teeth. Often though, it is without texture or reference, a single lit voice of reason for infinite personal possession of those with something to say.