Unscripted. Unedited. Real.
Writing for five minutes.
A sort of writing flash mob.
Focus.
I hear my voice rattling around in my head all tinny and sharp. Impudent. Insolent.
I feel caught in the cramped space between my get-it-together self and my what's-wrong-with-you self.
These voices, they deafen.
I just want to be present.
I want to be here.
But I have become so very scattered and pulled.
A backlit screen has become my muse rather than the face on the couch bathed in morning sun.
The papers on the table, they fan and crumple and I am so very lost.
There is that epic trip next week, the one that will make memories I will hold onto from now into eternity but
I
just
can't
pull
it
together.
It is the window that I need.
That flat liquid sand miracle.
I need to gaze through it, turn my face aright.
Let it be my lens.
Perhaps, then, everything will come into focus.
