I wait for the stories who seek my nurturing.
Yet the stories unfold within me and before me.
Yet the stories of others decay and destroy me.
Yet the memories of uselessness rot and annoy me.
Yet the memories of perfection enlighten and enliven me.
And the stories of the ancients excite and remind me.
And the memories of my past, they teach and they guide me.
And the reflections of my words, they entice and ignite me.
What has been inciting as of lately?
Wouldn’t you like to know?
As much as I would like to know you?
Who is the reader?
The one who takes the time to entrain their mind’s eye with that of the writer?
And what writer writes the words that are worth reading?
Just as much as the speaker who speaks their tongue into the ether?
Isn’t it all the same, just at another layer of thinking?
Our thoughts like quieter words,
A train that doesn’t always depart nor land,
A call that doesn’t always connect nor leave a message,
Lyrics without a melody.
There is lacking at times in the timelessness of two-dimensional writing.
It is but one color upon another, a series of glyphs meant to share something.
I’m waiting for my writing to be profound, to be sharing something significant.
I think it will be once the topic is clear.
For now, it’s just an exploration of the art, the act and the music.