on the burning within-
i sat alone on a wooden bench today, with this view. the weather was windy, but sunny. that sun shined ever-so-brightly right in my direction, illuminating me and the blank lined paper i held pressed against a spiral notebook. then spoke a voice. one i can not escape.
why haven't you begun writing?
what are you waiting for? the words are in you, the story is in you.
its been nearly two months...
why haven't you started?
lifting my cold hands, i searched for a pen and begged my soul for one sentence. just give me one.
i need a cue, i just don't know where to start.
start at the beginning.
the problem is i don't know where that is. when all of this started. when i felt such an intensity to ink words eternal. that i have something to say and it is locked deep inside of me waiting to be released. but why? what is it waiting for? then i remembered why i am here, the reason i came...
this is what i am waiting for. where the story begins, or maybe it's actually where it ends.
I feel in my fingers the weight of every word.
| — | Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 1 November 1940 |
Oh dearest Keiko, thank you so much for all your nice and poetic words. Je veux aussi! Unfortunately I won't be in Paris at that date, because I'll be spending some weeks back home in Vienna with friends and family for Christmas and New Year.
ReplyDeleteI sincerely hope you will retur to Paris next year (how far away that sounds), it would be magic indeed to explore the city with someone who sees it like I do.
I hope you're having a lovely time and don't die of anticipation ;)
xx
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