Suppose I wrote, in detail, what has happened in the past two weeks. Then, when I placed my pen down, I decided to snip the entire tale up in to sentences. Pick up the scraps of paper. Throw them into the air. Let their importance and stupidity float down upon my face and hair. One by one, I pick a handful of them up:
I have returned home.
There is a silence here that I will both enjoy and miss in the next few weeks.
The kiss against the closet yesterday was nice.
I've been picking up more of the words that I hear.
Soon, I will be standing in front of a thousand or so and, while it makes me nervous, I am ready for it.
Tonight will be music and images and two beautiful men accompanying me.
A package full of witchcraft that a lad on the other side of the country has sent to me is being held hostage by the post office.
I suppose it's not just me that is in between steps.
"When is the last time you chased someone?", I was recently asked.
I keep thinking of this question.
k.
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