copy. write. infringment.

I find comfort in the safety of anonymity. It is the paranoia that surrounds me and keeps my thoughts safely to myself. And I wonder why there is more fear in sharing? What good do ideas do when locked inside, gathering dust and haunting the tired writer's mind.

These words that rattle and clamour against the skull like unsettled spirits. But these ghosts are mine. I am still too anxious to set them free.

I discover that writer's block comes in two forms: the absent genius and the possessive muse. The turn of phrase that gets past is not the first to be written. The best is kept for herself. Like a hen, she sits on her words waiting for brilliance to hatch.

Newborn, I will brand these letters. And the world will know they are mine.

- wit -

The First Rain of Spring

In the morning I catch the breeze as I round the corner through the alley and open up on the harbor. From its salty mist I can tell it comes from the sea. This far-off breeze brings with it a healthy rainstorm, and spring is not far behind.

The dirt is saturated, but still the ground soaks up the water greedily, the first green shoots of daffodils showing their tips in a nearby garden. This rain is cleansing, washing away the stagnation of winter. Windchimes are ringing on porches and birds are chirping noisily in the trees.

My town is not a concrete jungle, but a brick wilderness. Streets both paved and unpaved weave together with a patchwork of bridges over flooded waters. Nature pokes her head in the spaces in between and we barely notice her except when she brings forth from the sky. I feel closer to her today, as she announces the return of spring's reign.

On rainy sidewalks, people bow their heads beneath hoods and umbrellas, like the flowers buried just under the soil. Today, we are still hibernating, but soon we will show our faces again.

- wit - 

Through the Glass

I remember walking a Nature Center trail through suburban woods until we stumble upon a sudden opening, where the brilliant sun shines down on a clearing of wildflowers. It takes my breath away. This is a painter's dream, a vivid palette of light and color. This is the scene of a Victorian romance, where lovers picnic or tumble around in an endless tryst. This is a place where time stops, and I am overcome with the sudden urge to run in the middle of it all, immersing myself in flowers and sunshine. Then I remember chiggers and ticks and all the other nasty things that might be crawling in that tall grass. So I enjoy from afar, and stay on the trail that takes me safely back to the car.

Nature, in all its beauty, is something we'd rather not experience first-hand, lest the snakes bite us in the grass. It is something we want to bottle up and take home with us, to admire on the shelf at our convenience.

- wit -