I've been wanting to write, like really write for quite some time now, but the words have been sitting at bay. I blame the busyness of life. The reading, the thinking, the talking too much. Usually I can write when I quiet the outer and listen to the inner. When I let the words move from being the frayed edges of my heart to the center of the rhythm. I have things on my mind. Larger philosophical questions about life that want to frame my thoughts. They beg for attention, and at night get a few minutes worth before my head becomes disenchanted with their largeness and I fall asleep.
Outside the sun has gone down, the tulips stand still in the moonlight waiting for the morning's speckled dew. Flicks of red, pink, and yellow face up in the promise of the coming day.
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