There are so many beautiful things I
want to write about.
The way the evening sun falls across
the garden right now. The whispering sound of birch logs burning in
the fireplace. The fragrance of woodsmoke and a summer garden. The
quiet peace between the trees, heavy and soothing as a warm blanket.
And more: The feeling of freedom last
night as I cycled home through empty streets, a little drunk and a
little in love with life. The smile on a new friend's face as we
shared a bowl of baked potato wedges in aioli. The warmth of the sun
as I drank coffee on my own in a quiet courtyard. The joy of painting
my nails with chartreuse varnish. Receiving a phone call from my
mother, thirty feet away, who wants to wish me a good day. Solitude
and the meaningful looks between friends. Little details,
colourful and funny.
But I don't write about all this.
Because everyone is clamouring for attention and I would hate to be
one of them. Because I'm tired of seeing written words falling flat.
No comments:
Post a Comment