||[Jan. 2nd, 2008|10:20 am]
A Writer’s Voice
Slip the lean paper stick into my mouth and head out into the wind with book in hand.
Slip the camouflaged coat onto my lean frame and head out into the wind with book under arm. The wind, it whirls and it swirls and it smites the flame on my cigarette.
Whispering wind, what are you saying to me? What was the spoken whisper to do for me? I cut across the sidewalk to lean against a building to re- light the lean stick. The flame illuminates my face in the dark and the wind, an ocean roar tickling in my ears; what is it whispering? I am almost home with the book, but that whisper of wind, a sweet sorrow like firm tickling voice; what was it saying? It has as much meaning to me as the empty swooshing sound of hovering dragonfly wings. And so I walk slowly lingering in wind which was coiling my hair, calling out gibberish. So what it whispers is what I wish it to say, I said so silently into the night, and wind comes back more forceful, moaning. I am floating, hovering now looking at the universe and smoking and looking and realizing, I am my own universe and I must get home; I must while the night still lives before work the next day. The whisper of wind says what I want it to say, words hover like delicate transparent wings on the puff of a breeze in my mind, hover and ready. Precious life is mine to express and only mine. The wind is my own voice and I make it say whatever and then I write it down and it becomes, a written marvel.