The Soul of the Slobbering Hound

Whole weeks go by and the words don’t come, but bark instead from the cavernous deep of my longing, of my confusion, of my loved and lost, of my ambition and inadequacy, of my dying, of my fear, of my disgust. Barking like slobbering hounds, ungrateful for the opportunity I’ve given them to live again, to be reborn, but no. They are creatures of habit, these dogs, these thoughts, this heart of mine. It wants what it had, and only when it gets it will it start wanting everything else as well.

Friday

why i write

I write because the words depend on me to find them. I depend on them to find me, too.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i write because i cannot make music. i write by default; because it's the only way i can sing (even if i happen to be a bit out of tune).