It’s there. It’s just at the tip of my pen which I can feel in the grasp of some ancient scribe; poised, full of life, full of need, full of darkness, hope, sorrow, ready to speak with the scritch scracth of a feather tip quill across an ocean of white, a sleek silver orb exuding the everything pulsating from my palm, through my tendons, coursing it’s way through my cuticles, yearning for the hammer of my grandfather’s typewriter, blooming with the depths of me, swollen balloon beckoning an explosion, a cacophany of all my emotion, worry, tears, laughter, fears, hope, hype, and over exultant, the deepest, brimming, unspoken desire, unknown, unintelligable even to myself, that dark dank place that says I need you, I want you, but more I am afraid, of myself, of my heart, my mind, and my what may come….
Speak through me, tell yourself, Story. You are there. You are on the tip of my tongue and the top of my heart, waiting to be heard, to be spoken, to be released. Release me! Let me go! Speak your words, your tale of contrition, your kudzu laden sticky stinky summers, your wintry gusts, let me tell of the hills which roll with green and sing with beauty, blooms with rare gorgeous flowers, and dies a cold grey death, and the horrible festering stink that populates this cesspool, and the joy, and the growth, and the loss, say it all and let me go from this need, this pulsating sense of unfinishedness.