February 3, 2011 § Leave a Comment
The place where ideas are birthed – within the warm, loamy ephemera of the early hours.
They shoot off tiny green leaves – tiny fledgling ideas waiting to grow, to be chosen. Who knows where each one will take you? To the shimmering heat of a dark, red desert, or the smooth grey cave of an abandoned 12 storey parking lot.
My ideas grow here, quietly between the covers of a red notebook, taking shape at the tip of a ball point pen. I examine the things that wring my heart the most. The things I almost cannot bring myself to confront. The things that will trail around on my coattails until captured, held between my palms and looked at, dead in the eye.
I ran when I was young. Denied, fought, lied, clawed, stole, drank, drugged, cried and wrote my way through the years as a developing adult. I saw death thrice, in very different circumstances each time. The first, a fault of an unseen weakness in my body. The second, a fault of the unseen weakness in the people around me. The third, a fault of one of the many unseen weaknesses in my mind.
But I live now. And am done with running.