The laughter intruded on my feeling of loss. I kept reading about the writers breaching the literary shores and I felt in myself a yearning so powerful that I was about to cry. That short burst of laughter seeming to say either get happy, or you’ve left it to late.

I know there are words in me. They rush around in my head, looking for a spot to rest. The question is; will I spend the time letting them scamper down my arm to rest on the paper. Where they can connect up to the one behind and in front. When they do there is creation and my mind is at peace for a while.

That’s why it matters. I write to release myself from what crash’s around in me. So that I can string it together and sense the uncertain logic behind me. When it is laying on the page, there I am.