I don’t know why but I just need to write. More often than I do these days, when reading a recipe all of a sudden makes me want to write poetry and drink wine and throw away the scale and be a voluptuous woman in happiness: this I need to write down. On paper I can’t hear the inner voice yelling at me to be different, I can only see the morning-dove letters I write and I can feel their wings flying out of my head and out into nowhere.
I don’t know where they land half the time, I don’t even care. I just know I had to speak them. Or write them. Or remember them and that someday, someone else will see them. Maybe never? And if they’re never seen, at least I felt them.
I always feel the words.
Simple words, strong words. Words I’ve never heard before. Each one rolled over and over on my tongue, somersaults in my head as I play with them and bend them. As I fit them around my heart, feel them in my hands and wonder about where they started and why.