‹ Prequel: In the Month of May
One-Hundred Days
Day Thirty-Eight: Creation
We walk and stare at other people's creations, made of substances worlds apart and placed on mediums never the same. They are scenes of love or landscape or words that have no origin except the creator's heart and soul. The creations surrounding us, whether painting or sculpture, drawing or words, they create a world of our own that we walk through with wide eyes and even wider minds, open to every aspect of inspiration that may flow into our heads while wandering through our medley wonderland.
I keep my hands out of yours to write phrases on blank pages. I write these words on my skin, and when my skin can hold no more ink, on the back of forgotten receipts. I run out of receipts and give in to buying a dollar notebook, no bigger than the palm of my hand to fill with the rapid thoughts running through my mind. You only smile and occasionally take the notebook to write down your own words.
You have always kept your creations in your mind, you could store the words and images away for days and somehow manage to conjure them from air at any moment you pleased. I, however, can keep a thought for only a few seconds, and rarely can my hands keep up with the pace of the thoughts speeding through my mind.
My head is cracked wide open, thoughts and words and creations leak from the open seam continuously. Sometimes I can catch them as they fall, but more often they slip through my over anxious fingers, falling away from the papers I have kept open for them.
You take my head in your hands and catch the words with gentle fingers, and speak them aloud so that I may write them at my own pace. They float above your open palm, calm and peaceful, tamed for however long your keep your hand beneath them. I write and watch in awe at their calm temperament. You only smile and keep them close.
I can see your own creations flicker across the whites of your eyes as we walk, and I stem the flow from my open mind and place my hand in yours. You smile at me and keep your creations inside your mind, sewn shut with perfect seams.
We keep our creations held inside the cage of our clasped hands, safe from joining the others in our own wonderland of creations.
I keep my hands out of yours to write phrases on blank pages. I write these words on my skin, and when my skin can hold no more ink, on the back of forgotten receipts. I run out of receipts and give in to buying a dollar notebook, no bigger than the palm of my hand to fill with the rapid thoughts running through my mind. You only smile and occasionally take the notebook to write down your own words.
You have always kept your creations in your mind, you could store the words and images away for days and somehow manage to conjure them from air at any moment you pleased. I, however, can keep a thought for only a few seconds, and rarely can my hands keep up with the pace of the thoughts speeding through my mind.
My head is cracked wide open, thoughts and words and creations leak from the open seam continuously. Sometimes I can catch them as they fall, but more often they slip through my over anxious fingers, falling away from the papers I have kept open for them.
You take my head in your hands and catch the words with gentle fingers, and speak them aloud so that I may write them at my own pace. They float above your open palm, calm and peaceful, tamed for however long your keep your hand beneath them. I write and watch in awe at their calm temperament. You only smile and keep them close.
I can see your own creations flicker across the whites of your eyes as we walk, and I stem the flow from my open mind and place my hand in yours. You smile at me and keep your creations inside your mind, sewn shut with perfect seams.
We keep our creations held inside the cage of our clasped hands, safe from joining the others in our own wonderland of creations.