Time, I guess, to write again.

But herein lies the issue: how?
And not how as in, how do I type or how do I wield a pen or even how do I call myself to arms as a writer. But how as in.. what form will my exploration take today?

Said.
I am not afraid to create. Nor do I fear never being heard. I fear looking at my writing and
being disappointed.

Perhaps to grow as "someone that likes to call themselves someone that writes" I need to focus. To write a purpose.



Purpose:

This is my call to writing. There's something that needs to be said.

It's something I can't escape.
Every other breath, I hear something that glints in the light and sparks for my attention. A lyric clearly confused for clarity. Morphemes moved for motivation and challenge. Something someone says that is just a little catching. Breathtaking. Cute.

My greatest hesitation is that I will try too hard. That I'll end up one of those writers; you know those that deliberately frame contrast, that are obviously seeking to confuse and imagine and say something that has never before been said. I mean, that's nice. But too much of life is about trying too hard and it's not something I agree with wholeheartedly nor with all of my heart. It is, for me, to seek to say simply. Invocation and inception and lilt. To not

be obvious.

I'll take a deep breath.



You know what I'd like to capture? That moment; the one in the sunlight. The one at the end of your sigh, when you open your eyes and really look for a second. With the grass, the smell of fresh ground coffee, the six strings resonating softly in a chord of accord. Of content. Of Promise.
It's not necessarily happy, that moment. It's both quiet and cacophonic; a little bright and yet heavy with earthquakes and thunder. And it's rare, we see, but always sort of there. Underneath. Underneath it all.

That's the moment I'd like to capture. All of them. Freeze-framed, lit with still harmony and lifted melody and sand and breeze and the slight smell of sunscreen.