It is April 12, 2013. The scent of spring is full on the bosom of the earth. Sites like Walt Whitman with his scandalous Leaves of Grass scamper through my head. I have only read lines from his volume but the title alone beckons me to indulge in his words, to drink them in, to massage them into my mind like an expensive and aromatic oil. I want to grab a pen, to write a white stack of paper black with gibberish about nature. I want to climb a tree and peer through the branches at the silky budding leaves. Waves of passion wash over me as I take in the blue sky with the scattered rain clouds.
Nature makes me delirious. No cup of wine has ever been this sweet! My mind gropes for words as my hand itches to keep moving my pen along. Visions of timeless writers, heads bent over their desks, consumed with the passion of their art blink through my mind. A door is opening to a world I had all but lost through a painful process called growing up. To grow up and leave the sweet faith of childhood behind should be a punishable crime.
"She sat reading her work from the day to him. He sat still, listening. He did not hear her words, but rather the sound of her voice, for nothing could equal it when she was reading her own work to him. Work filled with descriptions of scented honeysuckle, wisteria and starflowers. He did not really know what any of it meant, but therein did not lie his passion. His formed within the light burning in her eyes and expression as she read and her wild hair tousled about her head, reticent of her scamper through the woods to gather her love-laden descriptions. At this time she had no magazine that would take her works, but rejection had not dimmed the fire of her passion for writing. If she did not write about the buttercups and bluebells, then who would even notice them? For this reason, for love, she must keep on writing. Even if no one ever paid her for her work. She wrote for love's sake, not for money. And somehow nothing else seemed to matter. There were days in the darkness that she doubted. And then you would find her snuggled up in the arm of her love, her feet tucked beneath her, and her head on his shoulder. He would lean his cheek against her wild hair and whisper love and faith back into her. And so life continued for two years until the day she went to the mailbox....
Lily's Book of Flowers
Two tears fell onto the cover of the book she finally held in her hands."
And what made me write all of that just now? I don't know...a delicious hunger for beautiful, intricate, complicated things? For description so lush you can feel like you're taking a bite out of a moist chocolate cake, laden with cool whipped fudge icing, decadent and far too elaborate a flavor for a human tongue. Description that draws you to childhood days of carefree visits to Williamsburg, Virginia where time stands still in the 1800's. Secret seats beneath dark shady vined trellises. A calligrapher hard at work copying a book. A shop displaying parchment paper, books and inkwells.
I run my finger along the icing of this cake, then put it slowly in my mouth. The icing melts. The chocolate floods my senses. I step into another world and I don't think I will come back for some time.
Nature makes me delirious. No cup of wine has ever been this sweet! My mind gropes for words as my hand itches to keep moving my pen along. Visions of timeless writers, heads bent over their desks, consumed with the passion of their art blink through my mind. A door is opening to a world I had all but lost through a painful process called growing up. To grow up and leave the sweet faith of childhood behind should be a punishable crime.
"She sat reading her work from the day to him. He sat still, listening. He did not hear her words, but rather the sound of her voice, for nothing could equal it when she was reading her own work to him. Work filled with descriptions of scented honeysuckle, wisteria and starflowers. He did not really know what any of it meant, but therein did not lie his passion. His formed within the light burning in her eyes and expression as she read and her wild hair tousled about her head, reticent of her scamper through the woods to gather her love-laden descriptions. At this time she had no magazine that would take her works, but rejection had not dimmed the fire of her passion for writing. If she did not write about the buttercups and bluebells, then who would even notice them? For this reason, for love, she must keep on writing. Even if no one ever paid her for her work. She wrote for love's sake, not for money. And somehow nothing else seemed to matter. There were days in the darkness that she doubted. And then you would find her snuggled up in the arm of her love, her feet tucked beneath her, and her head on his shoulder. He would lean his cheek against her wild hair and whisper love and faith back into her. And so life continued for two years until the day she went to the mailbox....
Lily's Book of Flowers
Two tears fell onto the cover of the book she finally held in her hands."
And what made me write all of that just now? I don't know...a delicious hunger for beautiful, intricate, complicated things? For description so lush you can feel like you're taking a bite out of a moist chocolate cake, laden with cool whipped fudge icing, decadent and far too elaborate a flavor for a human tongue. Description that draws you to childhood days of carefree visits to Williamsburg, Virginia where time stands still in the 1800's. Secret seats beneath dark shady vined trellises. A calligrapher hard at work copying a book. A shop displaying parchment paper, books and inkwells.
I run my finger along the icing of this cake, then put it slowly in my mouth. The icing melts. The chocolate floods my senses. I step into another world and I don't think I will come back for some time.
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