Returning states, where we find our strength in scripted beneath raw flesh.
Every step heavy with condensation of sweat.
Condescension sways fist to fist.
There’s nothing I tell you, for me in this world. Because as much as I try it escapes me. Either I’m too dull to grasp the signals.
Or either I’m not something. I’m a shadow that takes great pains to yield to routine causality.
I write because I find the calm in the word in how I pick to arrange them. In the order that comes to me without strain or uneasiness of character.
This is where I see in clarity. The dribble of consonance and vowels across the page were the forms of nouns and predicates meet and greet. An extension of extractions from the wells of my inkling heart.
There’s constant struggle in finding your voice between a sea of names a writer must swim to catch its fish. The great Moby Dick.