I’ve been so drugged up in work I had forgotten the intensity of anticipating a prologue.
As the lights are dimmed, the nonfiction readings tuck me in every night. The loyal companion then (will) acknowledge my presence in the morning. News, news, and do you know how sickening it has been that everyday rapists are sent to roam the nation freely?
Today, I accidentally asked my friend to “liaise” with another friend – what an embarrassment. This tuning-in and tuning-out of the necessary lingo are challenging!
So tonight, is the night words encapsulate the writer that I am. “I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror”. Does that not excite you?
I’ve long forsaken this jitter, this excitement of getting lost in a whole different world. I remember how we (in fiction writing class) were tasked to eavesdrop random conversations so to invoke musings, which are then meant to create scenes. Scenes, which are so descriptive that the boy who was sitting across the table looked so dapper in his plaid shirt with his clear blue eyes staring back at me, is considered dry.
Ahhh… I will, I will sit, be inspired, and write. If we go back to "day 11 – it is you", they had all been tapped emotionally. Tonight, my prerogative is my words.
