Four chapters written/re-written for Emarosa so far.
Don’t expect the next draft to be anywhere near ready before fall, but it’s coming along nicely.
In lieu of that, Florence Welch put together this amazing piece called The Odyssey.
It’s about 50 minutes, but well worth every one.
A child wandered into the woods yesterday.
We spent years searching for him, but she was nowhere to be found.
A friend says this guilt is misplaced because these things happen.
I wonder when they’ll go missing, though they’ve never really been here.
I believe that meeting love is so unlike having met her.
I also believe calories don’t count on the weekend.
No one knows what the matter was with Van Gogh. Not really.
Some understand better than they ever wanted to, though they would never tell you.
I still think about that child sometimes, and perhaps the child thinks of me.
I doubt the thoughts are the same.
You took my hand and told me to never forsake love for a lover.
Time’s not fooled by anyone: you never believed you.
I saw a thing once I couldn’t believe.
It was too much for words, and even if you had been there you still wouldn’t have seen.
So I drew you a picture to show the trees through the leaves.
The barren forest whispered as you stared at me, “Sometimes it’s better to forget the dreams.”
Some time later, or perhaps before, we finally abandoned the search.
If the child wanted to be found, then maybe we seemed decent (if not selfish).
But we know better than nature how things ought to be.
We’re more simple than we believe.