She told me “write write write write write” and I swear colors exploded between the gaps of her syllables.
“Spend as much time humanly possible writing,” she said. “Trust me.”
And that was it. I knew the gravity of a lark’s plight. Why I can’t believe in god–why I can never say anything lasting about the first time I fell in love–where sin dissolves after bloodshed.
Here, only in subjectivity, I can be. I’ll take my brevity and bury my heart in yarn, twisting and knotting its threads into some imprecise, truthful pattern. You can find me within the layers, hidden like a lost pocket of conversation, clinging to the hope that my life is not a cliche.
There, I can plant an idea, grow a tree, and whittle my labor into a pipe. I’ll load it with potential and it’ll burn into delicate mushroom clouds–organic like the dreams at our feet.
Me and my visions, we’ll summon together the north and south pole and whir lightly over the axis of catastrophe. Parallel, we’ll know the freedom only possible in a well’s stomach.
And if it all becomes too fleeting, I’ll burrow into pillows made of hand scratched letters and admire the inconsistency of tree roots. My ankles will sink into caverns. I’ll throw tridents at the impossibility of clockwork and my vessels will shoot rockets from my heart.
And like a raven who sees the shimmer in blur, maybe, I too will find the color of nothing.