This is the summer that my words come back to me.
This is the summer that I, perhaps, finally begin to understand what it means to truly have a muse. To have a muse, and not merely flutter by something so breathtakingly beautiful even in passing that you willingly rip apart and reform your entire life simply for the sake of reflection, of mimicry.
Simply to be close to it in the only way that you truly can.
(Though that summer — so many years ago, now — was the summer I finally understood the importance of words and stories themselves, and I still don’t regret a thing.)
Last summer, I waited.
Last summer, I spilled out word after word after word and then tucked them away, quietly, without fuss, because there was no one to give them to, no one for them to be for, and I no longer had any need of them myself.
I looked at those words again tonight, and suddenly realised that I had been painting out pieces of this summer (pomegranate seeds stretch across narcissus petals like blood blooming over marriage sheets & streetlamps and stars slip inside to paint your skin), like tiny snippets of things I did not know were coming but was holding my breath for all the same.
A rather uncomfortable realisation, that, but I’m too caught up in the sensation of truly breathing again at all to really care. :)
(Words and stories are magic, and don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise.)
Tonight, there is writing to be had…and by god, I am going to have it.
Because what else is there, really, in the end? What doesn’t come down to stories, to cycles, to words?
To the inspiration behind them?