Perhaps it is easier to deal with being out of step with the world around you
than it is to find the creative impulse if you can only see the world in narrow,
preconceived ways.

I sat up late last night with my torch and diary and wrote. Furiously wrote, till I lost sense of time, lost touch of how far away I was from myself, only intent on getting there to see the answers to the questions burning all the while.

Young, I sat near windows.
Watched the day as it walked past me
And waved hello to the night.
I used to think,
Oh the broken-backed moon, where do you go
after the week you grow thin.
Do you die?
Where do they put you then,
will your soul be folded twice and placed
gently in a flowered vase
and covered with embroidery?

They come to fetch me, it said.
Who, I ask.
I'm sorry, some things we never know
Till we get there ourselves.
But you will, you will put mine in a vase for me,
won't you.

I still point to the moon, save for
cuts on my earlobes
as mothers have always warned.

It's okay if you don't understand, sometimes I find more questions than answers by writing.

Labels: Literary Works