Often, I write all day
long with white ink on
white paper, late into
the night, until it is all I
can do to feel the letters
curving to earth from
the tip of the pen &
then, I fall asleep.
Dreaming of running, or
maybe driving in a car
the color of water & I
wake the next day
remembering nothing &
I gather the stack of
paper & a pen of black
on the desk in front of
me & the words begin to
dance over the page like
long legged insects
across a still lake & the
words in white whisper
behind & underneath
the new day. If there
is any secret to this life I
live, this is it: the sound
of what cannot be seen
sings within everything
that can. & there is
nothing more to it than that.

-Brian Andreas

Each person who ever was or is or will be has a song. It isn’t a song that anybody else wrote. It has its own melody, it has its own words. Very few people get to sing their own song. Most of us fear that we cannot do it justice with our voices, or that our words are too foolish or too honest, or too odd. So people live their songs instead.
-Neil Gaiman, Anansi Brothers

FROM THIS HOUR, FREEDOM!

From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will,
divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.
All seems beautiful to me;
I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good to me,
I would do the same to you.

I will recruit for myself and you as I go;
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go;
I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them;
Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me;
Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear,
it would not amaze me;
Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd,
It would not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.

-Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

Word are like leaves, and where they abound,
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
– Alexander Pope


How do I know what I think until I see what I say?
– E.M. Forster