My soul slid through the narrow breach like molten lava whilst my trunk got stuck on its junk. I pulled and pried until my soul hardened, sealing the crevice only to break up into jagged rubble once cooled. Only my heart remained warm. It grew and grew until it took flight and left the trunk covered in ashes to rot on the ground.
My soul soars higher without a weighty pen. As a proclaimed artist, so many times I focus on what the pen is doing that I forget what the pen can see.
The table is enormous and yet extremely crowded with a boisterous, extended family of lives. There is a woman desperately looking for a place to fit. To sit down. No one moves to let her in. Nor should they. They all belong equally. She sees a space on the corner with a wobbly chair and broken plate. Enough space, enough. She sits, she fills her plate. Her body straightens, her smile broadens, her shoulders even out.
Just trying to sit down…
I am up in the middle of the night scribbling dream induced words on the back of an old prescription paper. I believe myself to be desperate to find my place to sit down, hungry for my chance to eat at a table filled with food that won’t harm me. I fight with words on a page, slam the delete key too many times, contort simple phrases into jumbled consonants and question every inspiration, doubt each opportunity, long for any free moment.
Images of strength are vivid in my sleep, they fade closer to awakening.
I fight to stay there, awaken I always do.