a chill kills my spirit; words dangle before me from shut doorways; a light breeze swirls in the entryway, perhaps it is the muse spinning herself into oblivion; she won’t shut up; she won’t be still; yet, she continues to hoard every. single. word. pathways seems to be shunted; blood stops feeding; oxygenation suffocating every attempt to intake ideas. i do belive i’m slowly dying a creative death. i’d write about it; but that’s my point, I can’t.
I imagined the life of a kite today. The sky outside (as I was inside, in my cave, looking outside wistfully) a blue canvas splattered with white cumulus, edges dipped in grey. It beckoned for a kite; simple and red.
Freedom, sometimes we feel we’ve not enough; sometimes it buries us in its limitlessness.
They are dancing tonight in jewel coloured masks; royal vintages and emerald vines; drinking from a well of youth. I’d like to pour bourbon into my veins and age, until I cannot discern where I stop and the next warm body begins; sticky sweet under a hundred proof glaze.
I’ve no bourbon tonight, just a dream. I’m traveling to New Orleans aloft a simple, red kite. ~
