I don`t know why I hold back in my writing. I love writing because I can be anything, say anything, I can feel the world at my fingertips. I can graze the sky with my breath. No, further than that, I can dance in parallel worlds, jump rope with string theory.
I can be everything.
Maybe if I can explore that aspect of my writing, I can translate it into my life.
Maybe I can spill over and make a mess.
I`ve had this brewing in my mind for a while.
Identity
Finger prints on frosted glass
Half empty, half full
10 fingers
7 digits and an area code
Slips of paper, withered flags
Refugee, immigrant
Internally displaced
Black skin, white hair
Colours of the visible spectrum
His-story, womb-men
Shiny leather
Tattered sandals
Manicures and
Calloused feat
Conspicuous consumption
Subtle starvation
In your mind
Out of this world
Where would I find you?
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My thoughts are scattered, and in fear of losing them, I decided it was about time I found a place of my own to keep them all.
The word is a flame burning in a dark glass.
- Sheila Watson
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