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Image

Blink.

Blink.  

Swallow. 

Gaze.

Clear my throat.

Sigh.

My mind swirls and yet nothing will land squarely into a round thought.

The ubiquity of it all intimidates me.

The ceaseless rhythms of countless authors

having done centuries of thinking,

leading me to believe I have nothing to add.

Where does one find a modicum of confidence to write?

Writing requires self-esteem,

believing that one has something to say that is fresh…  perhaps

innovative

insightful

reflective

wisdomesque.

No, say no…  

It is all a pattern of neuro-woven, galactic conglomeration

 of humanity stirred into language

Emotion and fact, symbolically art-worked by agreed-upon words

Illegibly felt by some

Uninterpretable by others

Absorbed by a handful, if one might be so lucky as to make a striation

not a rut

Over and over-ridden…

A pathway

A string

An atomic piece of gritty love.

 


 

     A. Locke January 2014