Melding words together feels like music inside of me, reverberating in my bones and sending sovereign electrical signals to my nerves. My drive to write feels not unlike that reptilian urge to eat, sleep, and have sex. I can’t not do it. When I lie in bed at night and try to settle my brain to sleep, words defy my efforts and bond to each other like raindrops in my mind. Poetry and stories and expressions promenade like music notes through the twisting gyri of my brain and I feel so touched by the music of it all that I feel the need to leap from my sheets and put it all to paper, though I know paper can’t contain all the beauty that I feel. It doesn’t stop me from trying. I will forever be engaged in this dazzling undertaking to make everything inside me visible.
Putting phrases together makes something quicken beneath my ribs and expands my lungs rapidly, and it’s my breath, my heart, the coursing of my blood that fires up. My veins feel that they contain the white waters of the Colorado River, the tumbling shale of the vast and stony Rocky Mountains, the exuberant dancing of the Aspens in the wind. I am everything and nothing all at once, with just the scratching of a pencil, the typing of these keys to set the writing inside me free.
And now in the early morning with last night’s winds settled and the Maple leaves calling for autumn, I can’t not try to explain how it made me feel. I need to speak about how everything in me felt alive again when I listened to the rain sidling over the sun-baked branches outside my bedroom window. The way the wind confidently sauntered through the streets, the way the sky wrapped around the trees and knelt before the sycamores and promised it would avenge them next great wind.
The ground stretched to meet the rain and gaped to hold it while in other places the callous soil held fast and sent the water scurrying through the gutters, limply collecting in the lanes before being sent out in an angry spray under so many tires. This whole stretch of earth adjusted in its presence. That rain we’ve craved so long poured down, unaware of its celebrity. These beautiful things lay coiled up inside me all through the night and burst outside of me this morning like last night’s deluge. Like the parturient clouds, I was filled to the point of erupting and let go of everything bewitching and heavy and lovely inside me and became the cycles of the planet.