Messy and non-linear.
Like memories splashed against a canvas, plucking faces and events out of the mess that remains in our minds of time.
and I write….
The pen is heavy, yet comforting.
The black and white on paper.
I know it will never go away. The black will never leave. The darkness will never say, ‘you are not welcome here’ the brutal suffocating inkiness will never mutter ‘please go away’.
It will stay.
It will love.
It will be.
Trapped between the indescribable highs and the debilitating lows. And in the midst of it all….. a breath. With a pen.
A breath like the moment between in and out.
In my hand.
The light. The brightest most brilliant light found in the darkest of blackest of nights.
Poetic and tragic was how it went.