The Flow

And then I begin to regret not pushing myself further over the last couple of weeks to write raw poetry and short stories. But when I was on the other side it just wasn’t an option. I made a few key phrases that I can someday weave into a sensible formation, but at the time I could barely fasten my shoes to be honest. I was inside out, raw and unprotected on the outside. My mind was a gaping wound and my body was standing on a precipice. Every thought I had was like pouring alcohol onto an incision. No mind was the only place to be when this happened, like I was hiding out in a cupboard waiting for the monster to give up and go away. Unresponsive stupor.

And now, here I am back in the coffee shop with you. Your face so warm and familiar, like you are an extension of me. All else remains cold and harsh, and makes me wince upon interaction with it. It will yet be a while before I can complete a creation again, because the link between the depths of my soul and the material is not yet fully repaired. I see that now. But what if I didn’t have to complete something? What if the only thing that mattered was for me to reach out and put a mark on a page, what if that in itself could forge the reconnection? You smile at me (your knowing smile) and take a sip of coffee. And then you place down your cup in its saucer, and pass me a napkin and a Bic medium. The pen feels alien in my sore hands, but I can grip it now at least. Forget about the confines of structure, you say. There doesn’t have to be a contrived beginning any more than there needs to be an end.