Words go unsaid.
Words stay sheathed, remain hidden, defy all coaxing and promises of glory.
These words are in my head, I know they are, but what use is my word when the others are lined up like soldiers in Shi Huang Di’s tomb, waiting for command.
Waiting for use; waiting for labour.
There was a time when I’d sit at my desk for eight, nine hours and write. Those nights I would fall into a blissful sleep, taxed in a private and emotional way that nothing – not even sex, not really – ever simulates.
This is why I sometimes avoid the weekend newspapers; see those wonderful, talented columnists flaunt their wordplay, and rightly so.
I need to stop being jealous.
Even if, in this case, the jealousy prompts the words; they bubble up to meet their green, insidious master. I will batten them back down.
Right after I finish this post.
