I have pushed writing away, and was afraid I had lost the skill. Then, I remembered all the terrible shit I wrote when I was younger and how those evolved into something better, more crystalline, more vibrant or soaked or bearing, and I believe I’m just getting back from a short vacation. Which, if you think about it, is only a couple years out of 35 so far (20 writing), so that’s not so bad.
Here’s some shit I tried, knowing I’d fail to jot down the feelings from watching The Bros and the dementia scene. It’s just sad that I think I can dip right into the stream of consciousness or the brief-but-deep pools.
This ever-churning, emblazoned and darkened dot, drenched in hues
I am wasting
Between these breaths
I am taking