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Wednesday, 4 May 2016

In Search of Lost Purpose / Morning Pages.


A writer unable to grasp hold of words. Letters slip through my fingers like water. Residue evaporating so quickly it's as though the sun as I are one.
A photographer with no camera. Trying to retain the soul of images captured with eyes alone. My mind conspiring to alter them, subtly, before they begin to fade so far into the distance I cannot remember their form any longer.
A human absent for so long she had almost forgotten how to live.

But now there is noise where there has only been silence.
And it is so welcome.

It hurts until it doesn't.
It's empty until it isn't.
She's asleep until she wakes.

Doesn't.
Isn't.
Awake.