I long to send my words into the ethers like how petals twirl on the wind. Maybe they'll reach the grass beds over yonder and an echo will travel back; blossoms will come dancing back to me and fall into my lap.
So here I begin, and yet I've started so many times before...
Today I felt inspired but only from the crimson blanket under which I hide, to paint prettiness for my eyes only...I was supposed to concoct a master plan for literary success but of course, that'll never happen. Work is literally work and no amount of my own imagination will take the taxing process away from that. I like to write whatever and whenever, but I know now that isn't part of the deal when you do a Creative Writing degree.
So anon, was today...it slid down a slippery slope with me a few feet behind. It's time acceleration gone mad! Christmas next week...really?
It's getting too cold to sit under my weeping willow tree...but despite my frostbitten hands I refuse to leave it be.
No comments:
Post a Comment