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.