“Are you ok?” worry infusing each word.

Perplexed, “I’m fine”.

“Well, I read your blog.”

Mind racing, screaming silently, “What alarm was triggered?”

“Oh, that was just….” and I provided context – the trickling, incessant daily minutia eroding joy, its rubble blocking light and air.

For years, scribblings have been furtive – stashed in drawers, boxes, guarded, inaccessible. Judged inadequate, self-indulgent, and valueless by author and reader wrapped into one.

And now, this.

Exposed  (published !?) on the web.

Outing myself as wannabe writer.

Trusting that this part of me – only recently witnessed by my one love, friends, and strangers – will not wither in the light.

Fearing that my judgments of inadequacy are accurate.

Praying that such damnation is wrong.

Scribbling furtively and furiously, still.

No worries, I won’t quit my day job.

© CMD 2015



Still.                                                    Get Busy.
Body quiet.                                    Do Something Important.
Mouth silent.                                 Listen!
Eyes resting.                                  Watch!

                  You didn’t get anything done today?

You wasted an entire day?!

You can’t accomplish anything that way!





As. Is.

Quietly. Me.

So long silent…

So long silent.

Though part of me aches to put words to light — those thoughts and emotions yearning to feel the sun,
another part hides in everyday shadows.

Buried by everyday – the rubble of busyness, the cacophony of electronic assaults, the paralysis of despair.

Ok, so that’s a bit of hyperbole.

I want to spend time in thought, weave thoughts into words, put forth these afghans for others to toss upon the ground for a stolen siesta, wrap up in for warmth and comfort, spread across the sand and lounge in the sun’s brilliance.

To achieve such,    I    Must     Write

for me, for you, for life. (First hyperbole, now melodrama — sounds like English 101. How trite.)

Regrettably these lofty thoughts seem contradictory to the compulsory academic writing that demands my attention and haunts me … for at least another year.

But perhaps, I will nurture this wee rebellion, this self-indulgent (or self-fulfilling, depends on one’s perspective) escape from should do.

Tapping out thoughts once more – from me to you.

(c) CMD / Creekside Whispers 2015