Somehow, these days, all my words seem to come out boxed in these concise, small containers. I call them poetry. You may call them ramblings. The words, they come to me, line up in front of me and make their presence known. I wrap them up, type them down, they get away from me and it is done.
So when that stream hit me, while the warm water was still running down my back, I knew I had to get out as quickly as I could. So I jumped, dried and ran, dangly bits dangling under the towel I draped around my clackity bones.
Now, here I am, trying to get these words on the screen – while my hazy gaze can still discern them (as long as I wear my reading glasses and I keep the laptop close enough I can do it) – as fast as I can, editing be damned (don’t worry, I’ll give it a once over before I’ll actually put this up on the blog).
And just as quickly as it started, it stopped. Halted. Lay dead. Became deceased. Like the parrot. No way to glue it back to its perch, no point. It would only fall down again.
Oh, but the rush. It felt nice. Really nice. I haven’t done this in a while. Is it like riding a bicycle, you think? Is it? Haven’t done that in a while either.
Maybe I should buy a bike.