June 5, 2000: Unpainted paths, which I must listen to
Green leaves look at me while thought scribbles onto a once living thing—then again, being that communication is in progress…this canvas becomes the next step in life. It’s not that I am writing over the footsteps of a once living tree ring—maybe the rings are breathing life into me? “7am!” The clock says to me. Tingles in the tummy, something’s not right. Everyday, fear strikes me down—lightning I can’t see, unexplained and uninviting. Shallow, the stream no longer is…caverns in sandstone decorate the journey. Fear…but only if I think of it—of what I keep asking…will this be my final day of writing?
Who am I writing to? Are they creating words for me?