A wintry spring -- I watch its wind whip half-bloomed trees from my window -- whispers oh, no, no to a wear a thing like this.
But I have never been one for what is timely, right, no, logic and I do not convene in the morning to make plans over coffee; I confer with magic.
And so I will relish in being a lovely, happy fool, put her on, feel her tassels kiss my upper arms, even as I crawl back into bed. Here, I will write. I will write and write and write. Which is to say I will muse, muse, muse. Write sometimes feels too forceful for what I wish to do. Too hard, too not like me, who lives in a half-world of half-real, half-shape, half-colors, everything impressionistic and often unimpressive.
My book is stitching itself together -- even as it contradicts itself page by anxious, love-wrought page. It is my whole ol' heart this thing. The only way to get it out is in tiny windows of scenes, sometimes tiny corners of windows of scenes. Little stories. A half page. Then again. All it was ever meant to be was musings. Their smallness is my own. The only way to stop my thoughts from running off, untenable, too far...