The page has always there for me in whatever capacity I needed it to be - forever the perfect, chameleon lover.
Sometimes I wept upon it’s blank canvas; wailing my souls bereaved inadequacy and suffering in letters of dark, wild ink.
At other times I set traps for nosy culprits who would use their secrets against me as if pulled form the ethers on a psychic wave only they had access to.
Then there are the moments that linger for centuries….
In those spaces no ink is required, just the page; blank, still, silent, patient.
Its unstained face reminding me that I have nothing to offer.
Nothing to give.
Nothing to say, share or be.
It is within that empty space that I thrive in the dark cave of my bottomless self.
Am I masochistic? Yes.
For what writer is not?
Has an artist ever existed that does not court the feverish walk upon a high wire of bliss with full knowledge that below is a net fashioned of razor sharp defeat?
To beg, borrow and open oneself to bleed is the way of the writer who dares to set footprints in the garden of creation.
I wish upon you, dear reader, the courage to sow the garden of your own creation.
With love from deep within the cave,
She may become enchanted by a blade of grass shimmering in the aftermath of the morning dew
She Never leaves.
She may spin herself a glistening web of wonder while strumming a song of melancholy hope upon its silent strands
She Never Leaves
She may decline conversation
She may be misty eyed and impenetrable
She may turn towards the remembrance of yesteryears discourse
She Never Leaves.