verba volant, scripta manent "words fly away, writings remain"
What news? What is new? New?
Oh everyday is new. Every sprout I see is new, every thought is new.
It all feels old.
Crackling, deep inside. Wanting to leap out and scream, "HEYYYYYY OVER HERE!!!!"
Alas biding time, in utter silence. Words find no home. None new that is.
Finding the elusive time, to just sit and take what gathers around in the skull, knocking around occasionally. No, no, banging, clawing wanting to escape.
Yearning to place them once more in some form. Here or elsewhere, in script or prose.
As the moments pass, one by one, another gone, oh look and another and still
staring at a blinking cursor.
No characters. No letters. No excessive punctuation.
SO what does prevent NEW words finding a new home?
Procrastination? Could be, doubtful though.
Insecurity? Leaning towards.
Meaning? Do they hold anymore meaning for anyone else than myself? And why would I care...
Having let go of my words for so long. I truly truly miss them. Mourn for them.
The stories, the old stories, yearn to be read, again. Want to be placed again. With a smidge of a touch up here
and oh yeah maybe there.
Overhaul on some.
And the words whir whir whir.