Best of 1874 Prose

Not to write

Let me see . . .

Not to write, to think instead, to wander, is good, sometimes. The fruit is squeezed dry, another ripe fruit’s to be picked, sometimes. A used dish rag needs to be washed and dried and folded and put in the closet, sometimes. And taken out later. 

I need to read others, sometimes. To get lost in their absurd world, to read what I don’t, at first, buy, sometimes. I listen to music every day. In those times I never write but dream in moods and see things that are very far away. To be alive! 

Sometimes, I stop writing for writing’s sake for long periods so I can photograph or paint. I never start on purpose like that but I’m glad to follow. I grow to eschew words then. You can’t trap me! I can’t remember then how I ever wanted to write when I can do what is so pleasing to me it hurts, instead. 

I come back, though, usually through a poem or word. The last one was “unrest.” It means nothing to me now but then it meant a world, a potential one. Perhaps it will make a few orbits and settle back with me in another dimension. Maybe it will need to do that not a few times. 

Words are slippery because they’re drops in a big old ocean. Maybe, one day I can describe it to you. 


I write abecedarian sequences

One reply on “Not to write”

I think any creative passion will draw you back, again and again, whether painting, drama, writing or whatever. Such creativity doesn’t always come easily, but still we need to pursue it. I love your penultimate sentence. So many words to beguile us . . . Very well expressed. @)

Liked by 1 person

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