I've been reading. I was telling Daniel that it's been an incredibly long time since I'd even considered reading a weekend away.
The words off the pages devour me, they devour me softly, taking me apart letter by letter, reducing me to strings of type perfectly spaced on cheap paper.
I haven't really been able to write. I'd written notes - I often jot notes when I don't have time to piece passages together - and most of the time I don't even need to refer to them. But I've learned that when words don't fall in line of their own accord in my mind, it is not time to write.
The art of articulating, the act of building thoughts is not unlike making a good soup. It takes patience. Loose threads which first escape your fingers need to sit on the backburner, and simmer, and simmer and simmer, until finally the flavours escape and blend to delicately fill the taste spectrum for one to savour.
Posted by sniffles at December 08, 2001 11:40 PM