Saturday, July 23, 2011
Tonight I can write about the last week I will spend in this apartment, filled with boxes, white walls, and muted sounds.
Tonight I can write about wondering when I will be in my lover's arms again, after deadlines have been met, and office lights no longer flicker.
Tonight I can write about news today of my cousin's death, and the woman whose make-up smeared when she crossed the median and didn't notice him there.
Tonight I can write...
But on nights such as these, I don't know where to begin, what pictures to paint, what brushes to use. Because I haven't written for myself in so long, and this leaves words filled with dust, filled with hollowness. I see others who have something to say. Others whose colored walls light smiles on the page. Whose memories will not be long forgotten after they have gone. But mine? Mine have stayed within me, and now I don't know where to begin.
So tonight, and I hope only this night, this is all that I have to say.
Posted by CAL at 7:28 PM