Festering my brain with the words of the ultimate greats, Hoping to extract from it something of even minuscule worth this afternoon.
I wish only to write something as cold as spring’s early morning below the bare rolling bluffs, where the gentle streams trickle their riffles in your ear and claim responsibility for the moistened landscape. Or as warm as the coffee, prepared over flames conjured from the still smoldering coals of the previous night’s center of gathering, whose bubbling attracts the eye of every frozen soul.
Or something as soft as the touch of the lips from the one I truly miss, or as hard as the urge to repeal my departure from the cheeks that resemble the glistening streets of a dreary London crossroads under the street lamps’ yellow suns.
What cannot be truly felt cannot possibly be chronicled in literature. “Infinite” and “…words cannot describe…” are dead. If no words surface from your emotions, tell me how you will express them. Music, tapestries, and physical acts can be interpreted in a vast number of different understandings and misunderstandings; words are definite, unwavering, and undeviating. They are stone.