There’s not enough in English
But then again there’s so many it overwhelms me to think of a search
Everyday language is what I go for
Sometimes I wonder if this really is how I speak normally
Other times the flow hits me and my voice pours out from every angle without question
Those are magical times
But when it come to words
I prefer the ones that I use on the regular
There’s always enough of those
Here’s to writing
Whether it’s from my heart
Or something forced out me
The words won’t slip out.
My legs twitch
and my mind black as the deep blue.
I’ll fish and meditate
and search for a hook
but when nothing comes
all I have left is a defensive rotation between
force and small rests
There are many times I give away my time to write. I give it and give it and give till I’m writing 10 words and starving for solitude. I know I should hang on tighter to my time to write. I should be more demanding but it’s such a slippery thing. It shifts and molds in countless ways. I grip, then I give my last five minutes and I’m left grasping at nothing. I slip away because writing isn’t something that can come or go. I, the writer am coming and going. Writing does not cry without me, I cry without it. I ache and spiral and shift when I’ve strayed too far, but it is always as I left it, blank, unfinished, or completed. But when I return I won’t be exactly the same as I was when I left.
-Saschia On Writing