Let's make believe that summer hasn't ended. That the sunlight beats upon your face and the freckles dance lightly on your cheek. That the kisses planted on your nose haven't washed away with the indifferent rain and chill of autumn. Let's pretend that dawn slips through the leaves too early and fades when you are whispering her name into your covers. Intoxicated with the purity of those innocent glances you stole as the rough sand tangled in your hair and the ocean cleansed away any worn out tribulations. All plans undecided, all words underwritten, time passing by like honey dripping from the spoon that fed you my heart, fed you my consciously misjudged intentions.
I felt as though this would the last time I will try to articulate ...anything. For I am failing daily, and I feel like I can't coherently express what it is I'm dying to say. I can't explain the constant, nagging emotion sitting somewhere in the depths of my chest, reminding me, every time I sit before the blank word document and inhale heavily before I begin the what used to be my escape, that this isn't working anymore. I now merely slouch; deciphering tangled streams of consciousness that clash together and contradict each other in my head. Writing used to be like breathing, and currently my writing is suffering from a respiratory tract infection. The vocabulary freezes in my mouth and I am an old, aging crank that has run out of words to say and things to write about.
But I'm not angry or upset with anything, so I will patiently await the return of inspiration. I'm sure that sooner or later I will sit down at my desk, pick up the pencil and write some of the most impressive poetry I've ever written. But in the meantime, along with an increasing workload and a lack of small things that get me through my day, I've resorted to enjoying spending time with myself. It's an alternate, the backdoor, the man on the side, whatever. And you know what? It's not so bad. The walks I've taken recently require but one companion - my ipod. With that, I am satisfied, and I find myself wishing I could record my thoughts and transfer them onto welcoming pages. I would fill volumes effortlessly with pages upon pages of stories and theories that are actually interesting to read. None of this...typical girl attitude I've been showing lately.
Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem.