On Hold

I lost the words, I write in waves and the wave has ebbed. I do come lightly to the page, not a writer really.  I have been called lazy by people who should know better, or maybe they are right and I am lazy.  I like to think I am waiting for my moment, patiently.  Bad form to wait for the muse.  The myth of the writer calls for the sacrifice of one's life to the cause, to be heroic so as to overcompensate for the loneliness of being misunderstood.

I spent yesterday playing with my son, I made him laugh so hard he squealed over and over and said, Again! Again!  I was out of breath by the end.  I am not so foolish as to think anything I write will top that.  I side step writing like I side step philosophy, each can claim to own you but you gotta dance around them, flirt of course, but dance around them.  Keep moving into each day and find the means of momentum. For eagerly the spiders spin their cobwebs around you.

I am happy, I like having words to live past me, I like to articulate feelings and ideas, I want to cry and laugh and be exhausted.  Being is primary, momentum is primary, not momentum to any particular end, just that sense of wind in the hair.  It is all about death in the end.  To know this is really it.  There is not enough time to waste on small talk and social niceties, I can barely sit still long enough to clean my house.  I live outside of the pattern, the way the world operates, I dance around it too.  Took awhile for me to figure this all out, to starve off those parts of life, to get down to the core and savor it.