A place of poetry, where my thoughts flow out. Where all that was haunting me is burned to ashes and something light and new is born.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Creativity could be like a storm- huge and thunderous, ready to pound into a fragile body. Mine is this tinkling bell, a little voice, this tiny little sweet imp that compels me to pick up a pen, one of my books, and insists upon being recored on the page. It likes tangibility, it likes existence. It wants a safe place to land, because even the most beautiful and free of thoughts need to rest for a moment.