Been working on some revisions to Emarosa.
Want to post the revisions, and maybe a new chapter by the end of November.
Dedicating NaNoWriMo to fixing up and finally finishing up Emarosa.
Words weave ideas, opinions, imagination. There’s always so much to say.
But in speaking, so much more is lost.
The ideas left unspoken, opinions never expressed. Imaginations left unshaped.
There’s an old saying, that we see the world not as it is, but as we are…
I found myself obscured beneath a cascade of leaves and branch-y limbs.
It’s the sort of place you’d love to get lost in, even though you always hated the idea of being lost.
Tree stalks larger than giants stretched as arms from the Earth, as if to accompany an early morning yawn.
This is where the fairytales roam, I imagine.
The steady flow of a not-so-babbly brook trickled along with the critch-crunching of leaves beneath my clumsy shoes.
Places like this aren’t meant for shoes.
Speckled rays of sunlight blitz to and fro through the leafy canopy, as if to guide the way before a fall breeze reminds that a sweater would’ve been a fine choice.
Of course, I think you would’ve suggested a jacket.
A fine wool one with buttons much too large for their little cut-outs.
Chipmunks, watching my gargantuan feet clomp along, scurry as I try to catch a glance.
I can never tell if they’re scared or just looking for a good game of hide and go seek.
I think you’d tell me it’s both. I’d reply it’s neither. We’d bicker the afternoon away, like old times.
We’re not that old to be having old times, though in this place you could hardly tell.
They sometimes say that life is a story. They sometimes say it’s a song.
Some insist that it’s everything in between, and more still say it’s nothing at all.
I don’t know enough to know what any of it is, or means, or if it even matters.
I think used to pretend, but the squirrels play, the birds chirp, the fish… fish.
As I lie down to stare at nothing in particular, to waste the afternoon away,
all I wonder is what you’d have say.