When I get here I am at a loss for words. The definition of a writer is continuous regurgitation. Well even so, this writer is going to start believing in these words because if not, who will?
A constant doubt encases and in turn, suffocates my brain because I am not at all worthy of words. I am not honest enough with them. The truth is, I am perpetual words. They embody and embrace me as much as a day can be divided. The words are always there. They are always wrapping around neon street signs, grains of sand, a woman’s silhouette. On Independence Day, they tied themselves around fireworks.
I was across the water, and bridges surrounded my sight. As the sun started to set, to wake up flesh on another side, I felt as though I was standing in the middle of a Monet, and could even taste the acrylic. I found myself looking north then south, or maybe it was east then west, but I could not believe my eyes. The beauty erupted inside me. As the night rolled around blossoms of pretty colored lights flared up the sky, but I couldn’t hear the pop. A feeling of nostalgia ran through my veins when I remembered a time when I was young gazing out at the night sky with a sailors hat on, (so proud of our independence), and the eruptions were tremendous. Silent fireworks is like cloudy lovemaking.
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