One day I’ll come back here and see the things I had yearned to write upon. They will be the clues for my hide and seek for the words now lost within my head. Somehow I will splice them all together and they’ll never be what I had once intended. Or I think not… I won’t remember. So I’ll always have that lost feeling in the depths, that inner eye still searching, the voice never singing the right tune.
If only I could write the words at the time they come before being kindly brushed aside. But the hunt begins, and the hunt continues and they will be the Fox I see through the thickets… the flash of bright eyes and fluffy tail… teasing me.
I pick up words along the way, during this chase, and tuck them in my leather pouch. And when I take the time to rest, I scatter them upon the forest floor, with twigs and moss and arrange them as if to create a map to the fox’s den. But before I can memorize the way, my eyes catch two ears in the corner… and off we go again.
Distorted Clarity 