Thinking Things.
Like...
how I want to blog
don't blog
come here
sigh
wonder if I have something in me, not to say, but, worth listening to.
...whether the 300 words in the novel are 300 more words than I had before, or merely 300 words that live and breathe and exist now, on their own, not as a part of anything, but as tumbleweed. Driftwood.
...time and how it's spent. So many hours at a desk, waiting for something real to happen.
...and all that is real, those so many hours at a desk are. real. A baby's heartbeat inside me, inside him, or 'it' because how could it really be, ya know, this way, as in true?
And should I have left this here, when it's how things really read, like the journal of a teenager's heart that should have already blossomed by now, and didn't, because that's not what anyone wants to hear -- that my nails are blue and green and chipped and I still walk around like the 300 words of a sad poet wondering why everyone else is a part of something but me.
Real is what happens in the held breaths and the plugging along, heart heavy with dreams. The real is 300 words that achingly hit the page and might drift away or blossom into 3 million. What you make today is real--the 300 words you write, the good food you eat and hours you sleep to build that baby strong. The things we wait for do happen when we live in the real now and walk steadily toward them.
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