It’s been a week of up before dawn and in bed long after dusk. A week of work and work and work and taking care of the business of life. A week much like any other when it comes right down to it.
Winter holds us in its darkness, frigid cold, frozen. We build fires and bundle up and complain. Being able to complain is the blessing, though one that hides itself in bitter words and false lament.
In between all this work and this complaining and this living, I write.
Like a fool that cannot stop herself, I give up sleep and precious hours in exchange for words. Words that slide from my fingers just as clearly as if they’d been spoken.
Words that light up the night, keep me company, guide me along the dark corridor of February.
That’s what writing always is, isn’t it? A shot in the dark.
And you never stop being afraid that you’ll miss, or even worse, you’ll hit an artery, a vital organ.
But laying down your weapon is never an option. Surrender only comes when the words have filled the page.
And there is always another page, always words pressing down on some inner, bleeding wound. The perfect bandage.
It’s cold and it’s dark and I let the words flow. Even when I’m not writing, they course through my mind in tune with the beat of my heart.
My telltale heart. Always, I let it speak.
I listen to the whispers.
You never know what ghosts they will reveal.
