There is lightning in the air and the smell of rain in my face, and all I think of is that there must be poetry somewhere that can slip words around the way I feel. I only wish I knew it. Or could write it.
For even though I spent three hours this morning being lost and footsore in the middle of a wilderness missing lectures I wanted badly to see and consoling myself with the thought of someone I could write letters to again, today was a day that ended in the taste of thunder and an expansion of my heart. And any day that ends well is worth every awful moment you put into it.
People talk too much, sometimes. They talk at you and at you and never stop to taste the shape of the words their audience hears. I wish I knew how to talk of things outside the moments they occupy.
I watched two men use a tree as a makeshift telephone pole because the one servicing their little town lay in two pieces on the ground. I walked three kilometres wishing I weren't; and part of the way I walked barefoot because my feet hurt too much. I built a brick wall while the masons sat on the edge of a well and laughed at me. I sat in a room with ten other people and watched myself be inspired. I sat in a car with strangers and had my handwriting analyzed. I smiled at a baby on the bus, and she turned her face to me and I saw she was blind in one eye. I watched people throw lit balls into the air while Chris Martin sang Sparks into my ears.
Somebody spoke to me today, and suddenly I wanted to write again.
I take every feeling and drip it out from my head - and still I feel only the inadequacy of the words I craft.
Somehow, though, it doesn't feel like the end of the world - even though I would have thought it would.
Why doesn't it?
For even though I spent three hours this morning being lost and footsore in the middle of a wilderness missing lectures I wanted badly to see and consoling myself with the thought of someone I could write letters to again, today was a day that ended in the taste of thunder and an expansion of my heart. And any day that ends well is worth every awful moment you put into it.
People talk too much, sometimes. They talk at you and at you and never stop to taste the shape of the words their audience hears. I wish I knew how to talk of things outside the moments they occupy.
I watched two men use a tree as a makeshift telephone pole because the one servicing their little town lay in two pieces on the ground. I walked three kilometres wishing I weren't; and part of the way I walked barefoot because my feet hurt too much. I built a brick wall while the masons sat on the edge of a well and laughed at me. I sat in a room with ten other people and watched myself be inspired. I sat in a car with strangers and had my handwriting analyzed. I smiled at a baby on the bus, and she turned her face to me and I saw she was blind in one eye. I watched people throw lit balls into the air while Chris Martin sang Sparks into my ears.
Somebody spoke to me today, and suddenly I wanted to write again.
I take every feeling and drip it out from my head - and still I feel only the inadequacy of the words I craft.
Somehow, though, it doesn't feel like the end of the world - even though I would have thought it would.
Why doesn't it?
No comments:
Post a Comment