a litany of ruminations

artisan; composer; creator, destroyer of worlds

.                                                            {what it means--what it means to be a writer.}

she is

painting,

painting

brushstrokes sweeping across an incomplete canvas

pen in hand, notebook quickly filling

conceiving

a portrait of words woven together like interconnecting strands of silk,

words rolling off one's tongue leaving lingering traces of elegant ink curlicues behind, spirals interconnecting and spinning like a hallucination, a fantasy, a feverish dream--

yes,

fingers ink-stained by the lifeblood of words, black-smeared palms and fingers and palms calloused by the constant presence of a writing utensil,

or perhaps cramped from typing, typing, typing, shadows beneath eyes growing deeper and deeper as sleep falls away, cast as a lesser priority

word-weaver

creator

destroyer

of worlds

portraying scenes beyond imagination, vivid description---scent, taste, sight, hearing, touch---almost real, just on the threshold--

knock knock, on the door of reality but no one answers.

instead of pigments and pastels, calligraphic ink, inscribing alphabetic symbols only writers can instill life within,

animating them to have lives of their own,

inheriting that spark of magic to their reader and beyond,

to whoever it may pass---

creating a wildfire

(Smokey Bear would not approve, but it is a metaphorical fire, she'd retort, a revolution beginning in the hearts of men, not to be extinguished)

and that spark may have yet to ignite a fire, yes, a passion,

passion

for the profession of the weaving of oh-so-delicate yet with the potential impact of concrete---symbols,

of ink

of

words.

in time,  she hopes that their potency never fades, yes, not unlike well-aged wine, only growing stronger with time.