What words come doesn’t matter, worried as I am about what I’ll write. The practice is to put down in paper what is up in the mind.
Some days is enough to be cryptic. Some days is enough to let the sensations of the words carry my hand through. Pure poetics –– unbounded by rationale, made from feeling.
If the vein dries, I sit and wait, for the channels of creativity to flow again. It doesn’t take long, so long as I pay the attention demanded.
A sip of tea, another sentence. Pressure. What pressure? None when you’re patient enough.
Crossing off is as valid as writing on. Goal’s not to finish but enjoy the show.
Should you continue or should you stop, is the wrong question. What’s based in emotions, in emotion’s gone.
