There’s a feeling you get when you are home alone in the middle of the night. A dash of panic and you try your best to remind yourself to breathe.
Their stories are important and necessary to hear in order to understand the multi-dimensional painting of human society. In order to grow, we must learn, and in order to learn, we need to hear about the “other” by sharing their stories.
Still, I sit outside with my laptop open and facing me like an outspread book filled with my scrawling that decorate the pale white digital pages with dark letters. I pause only for moments at a time to grab the metal canister of boiling hot green tea sitting on the wooden table in front of me to warm my core and propel me further into my fit of writing.
The lingering moisture that gathered in the air has always done that to me. Perhaps a bit of the past was carefully mixed in along with the misty fog too.
Taking on the poetry challenge, #OctPoWriMo again. Here’s the first poem: Rose Bushes.
would also come to fall in love with real journalism and the sitting down for interviews with some fantastic people, and I would continue working as a writer and journalist for the love of the interview.
The conversation of rich words is better digested after being presented on paper, and so I continue consuming chats and discussions through the act of writing.
My blog wasn’t always updated regularly, and I was getting called out on it. However, I appreciated that my friend was concerned about me taking the time to write.
A familiar scent of dust covered asphalt gently baking like a sheet of homemade cookies in an oven brushed by me as I began to exhale. The whiff of dense hot air transported me back in time, and prompted me to think carefully about the summers yet to come.
I had read a text riddled with anxiety and worry. The words pushed for a more detailed answer and begged for better news. “We have plenty…