I cross out empty white boxes with my quill. Nearly three hundred and sixty five hourglass squares swept away a grain at a time. The tiny point of my pen nudges away the minutes and the days with the impunity of a euthanologist.
I sit here pressed into my chair by the gravity of longing. My hand hesitates over the sheet, trembling with trepidation. I am possessed by the fear of death. But not of bodily demise. I'm paralyzed by the concept of a murdered dream made real. It's body strewn like the victim of a horrible accident alongside the road. Entrails of love and devotion and determination splayed open gorily for all to see. No one stops, of course. There's hundreds and thousands of dream corpses in the ditch of this street. And I'm in a car travelling too fast. I can see the end of the line-- the wall of self-imposed exile-- hurtling toward me.
Collision of acceptance incoming.
My eyes refocus on the untouched sheet of white. A single precious red droplet falls to stain the page. Containing so many of my hopes and dreams, it's now just a crimson starburst.
I steel my resolve and remind myself that I'm not just preserving memories for myself. I must make time for composition, even though composition doesn't pay.
I begin to write again. One at a time. Thoughts turned to words turned to notation.
Letters to Her wrung from inside-out.
10:39 p.m. - 2014-06-29
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