To pick up the pen tastes like lime and water with a bit of ice and an acidic tingle that doesn't exactly sit quite right but it's familiar and it clings to your throat in the same old way that it always has and always will because the muscle memory has been there for days, weeks, months, years, and so on and so forth, but it's not quite like riding a bike because there's anxiety that sticks to your teeth and makes it hard to breathe and think and panic panic panic panic but you know the rite and you know the rituals and you've got little things you do to coax yourself into the warm waters of that happy place that you really just invented to convince yourself that this isn't a stupid waste of your time but rather a treasured moment that you must defend and you must convince yourself into cherishing despite that part of you that sits on the other side of the mirror with its hands pressed against the glass that clamors and howls and demands you cease such foolishness because don't you have about a thousand other things you need to do?

Take a deep breath now. Hold it in for a second.

Down it strikes and you cast aside that fragment embedded inside of your head because fuck that voice and fuck that sound because you've gone around and around this silly sense of you must and you must and you must and your head breaks through into the ocean of things you love and the beauty in the world and it takes your breath away but it's not panic panic panic panic because this is closer to awe in the original sense when we still believed in majesty and color and the world wasn't quite so grey with its shortened views because it's just so big and we're so small and why should we not take a moment to breathe in the wonders of the world from the sound of train tracks to the smile of a performer to the curious child to the desire for celebration of an event gone well to the plume of smoke that rises from that loved one's cherried lips after a rough moment and they just need a break and you can't help but fall in love just a little more because how could anyone be so perfect as to create an electric current that runs from their heart to yours and back again in a circuit that others can see in such a way to make them jealous if only because they are alone or their beloved isn't currently present to help them shine.

Breathe in. Relax. Soak it in.

And you remember when you first realized you liked doing this when you realized the only enemy was the blank page and the infinite ways you could fill it with things on your mind or your heart or in the dark little places that make you who you are even if we all have places like that with sable black wings and looming nightmare horses that catch the light and dark just right as to stand as some titan of old when in the proper glow they'd just be the same thing you deal with every day but made unfamiliar and unusual because you're realizing for the first time that you're treading new grounds because how do you describe the tiny fractions of your world through such a clumsy set of tools with rules and guides and a thousand opinions telling you that your talent is threadbare and your prose isn't quite right and there's just no market for your opinions because someone else said it before and don't you know there haven't been any new thoughts in a thousand years but what should you care because you're still trying to find the word for the thousand subdued colors that you see from your kitchen counter as you make your coffee and perform the priestly duties of waking up the divine that resides within you because with a flick of the wrist, the tap of the finger, the snap of synapse you've just brought some half formed thing into existence and you must now give it a suitable form for it's short life before something else occupies your attention.

The buzz fades. Bask in it a moment longer.

The snarling in the back of your head on the other side of the glass does eventually catch your attention and your toast is burning oh no but you can still taste the citric finish of that curious little thought you had just a moment ago and it'll follow you through your day and you'll jot it down eventually where it's lost amidst a thousand little worlds that sit in the bottom of your pocket like a hangover that you only half remember between the sharp bites of the pressing world and the blurry recollection that builds itself into the countless associations you've made as you revel and roll in the words.

Oh, dear girl,

why are you so sad?

"My cherry ribbon

my hips does not go 'round."

Oh, dear girl,

why are you crying?

"My cheery ribbon

your heart can't tie."

Oh, sweet girl,

be sad no more,

for you have my heart.

Legend has it that we are all tied

to a cherry thread in our finger

connected to our hearts...

Does not matter

if your ribbon can not go

'round your hips,

for my hands

can wrap you in burning love

Always remember

that souls are destined to meet

to converge

to unite

and to prevail

Dear girl, be sad no more

For your cherry ribbon

Has wrapped my entire soul...

DA 2013