There’s 5 months of the year left and I haven’t wrote anything meaningful whatsoever this year, and now, there’s layers and layers of rust that I must dissolve from my mind and hands. The idea is for this to be the vinegar, the acid, to remove the rust. And it won’t be pleasant, no. I’ll call it a test of will, a gut check, for me to write 50,000 words before the leaves fall and there are whispers of winter in the chilly autumnal breeze. Whether that be prose or streams of consciousness, I will not specify.
But the past paragraph counts.
I know that I have talent, in writing and in life in general, so the question is, why do I insist on wasting it? That must be rectified and as some say, the only way out is through.
With that being said, I will attempt to paint a scene with words and hope that I stumble upon the spark that reignites, something to animate me from my so-called summer slumber. And if I do not find and do not grasp that ethereal spark, then there is no problem. Tomorrow I will write. Perhaps it will be less like a treasure hunt, to search far and wide and yet remain on the surface, and it will be more like an excavation of a stripped mine looking for the remnants of gold. I hope not.
Without further ado. Rough prose where I struggle to find my footing of what I’m writing.
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“Don’t you find it funny that the heavy rains, with the skies in their bouts of turbulent anger that can result in a scorched earth, are considered to be a respite from the cumbersome heat that cause men and beast alike to languish and wallow in lethargy for weeks at a time?” I say to the woman. A stranger. And I mean that in more than one sense of the word. She radiates something, and it is something that I cannot put into words with any sort of justice. A strange magnetism, familiarity, where observational candidness was possible.
“You don’t enjoy this rain,” she says, an unwavering assertion. There was no judgment in her tone, because to her, it was just what it was. Clinical. “You’ve lost something.”
“Because all children love the warm summer rain?”
“No, not childlike amusement and wonder. It’s tough to say. But I know you’ve let go of something that made you, you. And it wasn’t your choice.”
“You’re not real, are you?” And so I close my eyes and lean back and sigh.
“Still here,” she says. And I just know that she said it with an ever-so-slightly noticeable smile. “When you open your eyes, I might not be.”
“You didn’t mean that literally.'“
“How could you tell?”
“Did you?”
“No.” She says. “With this storm, where would I go?”
“Wherever ghosts go.”
“Ghost doesn’t suit me. Maybe a wisp? Sprite?”
“Someone fleeting but not haunting. Someone prone to vanish with the wind?”
“Perhaps, perhaps. But I am not so frail that the wind will carry me away. More like a thrush.”
end 1:13 pm words: 537 (to be continued later)