In Cursive: A little musing about my creative process.

It starts with adopting a rawness that hears heartbeats. It reels in fainted souls begging to have their stories heard. From another pair of defensive eyes, another par of quivering lips, please give me another dose of emotion. And the talking starts; their words wreathing in white smoke and intertwining themselves into my narrative.

It starts with feeling tulip petals when I rest my lips against your shoulder. And then I feel your fingers running through my hair as we immerse ourselves into the melodious tune of love. When I’m without your presence, I’ll allow myself to count the spaces between the windows of the apartment across from my room. I’ll be daydreaming about every curtain tale till they are washed over with feelings that waltz in me.

It starts with feeling brave and playing back songs from old playlists on the bus and toughening up when off-limits songs drags me down memory lane. Before I know it, the pain is rushing out and I’m dabbing the corners of my eyes wishing no one can see, wishing I had the words to describe things that was and is and is to become.

And I know the fears will come when the weight of these scattered thoughts become unacceptable.
Deep down I still wonder why.
But, don’t blame the human heart, it’s only been half the time.

As the days went by, these things imperceptibly make sense within me.
And that’s when everything starts writing in cursive.