February 21, 2010
Once upon a time, the date since lost, a whisper crossed her path, so faint it was barely more than a tentative suggestion. It happened every once in a while–that an idea breathed into existence–but very few managed to plant their seeds and take root in her mind. This particular story, and a few before it, however thrived in her thoughts–what set them apart from all others impossible to say.
That seed which had been planted would be well-cared for, as its progress from insignificance to greenery was delightful. With both love and care it was encouraged to shoot into the air, and to grow greener as its first leaves sprouted. She watered it with imagination and talked to it about notions. It thrived from the attention.
But mind as matter sometimes tires of offering nourishing soil for memetic creatures to grow, and at times the little story was all but forgotten; looming in the murkiness, awaiting the time when the sun would part the clouds anew. It always did, was patience only a celebrated virtue.
She did as well as she could when it came to caring for the sprout that grew from the seed that coloured her mind, and it accompanied her everywhere, as if it was a creature she led around the world on a leash. It sat next to her on the train, and skittered by her feet when she walked. It perched on her shoulder, beneath the umbrella when rain was shed from silver skies, and it basked in the sun when it smiled, wrapped in her long hair.
Though she never understood it wholly–no matter how much she tried–the tale was her best friend and constant companion. Though she doubted its future more than she should, she never the less believed in it; hoping others one day would treasure its mature glory as much as she had enjoyed its inquisitive youth.
So she kept watering it with her thoughts, and nurturing it with her notions. One day (she knew it was so) the story would grow a bud–the first sign that it soon would be finished. With more care than ever before invested in it, it would thereafter grow the most delightful flower; each petal a page upon which its contents had been written.
It was the dream of seeing the flower, and to understand its nature, that encouraged her to continue wasting her love on the creature-tale. That, as well as seeing what seeds the resulting fruit would sow to start the process anew–in a far future. For, the sufferings of a writer are always a delight in hindsight.
October 15, 2009
Autumn has come
and fires have been lit.
The forests ablaze;
trees engulfed in flames.
There is the sparkle of evening red,
the shimmer of yellow gold,
and a whisper of green
— soon lost —
to the howling winds.
Then there is the ashes’ brown,
covering crooked spikes
reaching for silver skies;
that soon will be