Thursday, March 25, 2010


I find that my writing voice is different than my speaking voice. It seems that, in writing, my words leisurely wander in and out of delicate descriptions. Slithering calmly throughout the verbs and adjectives, creating rather long winded sentences. I feel my tongue writhe behind my lips in ecstasy, tenderly tasting each tantalizing letter on the tip of my tongue. Much like eyes dancing behind lids while dreaming, my mouth visualizes each word before letting them bleed onto the page. Brain like a hurricane, blowing through and around my thoughts and then gingerly placing them in an order that allows the mouth to understand. My speaking voice leaves much to be desired. Often too quiet, it only omits rather jumbled thoughts that require the listener to pause and decipher what was said before giving a somewhat appropriate response. Thusly, I often choose to remain silent if I can help it.

As the wind shook the trees and passed her cool hand though my hair, I thought of the element that held so much power and yet could not be seen. I drew my breaths with the rise and fall of her rhythm, felt her tug and pull at me, watched her pick up dust only to spread it again in a a place she thinks it more appropriate. Her invisible hands take the trash we put on her sister and blow it back in our faces. I watched as plastic bags and newspapers plastered a chain link fence.

I think I'm writing a story in my new red notebook. I dont think I will be sure until I'm finished.

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