Thesarus

I long. Oh. So much.
I don’t have the right way to say it. How big that longing is. How encompassing. I can’t tell you about how elusive it is. It is something that dances just a hairsbreadth from my fingers, though. It is right there.
I reach for it. I grasp and pull and sometimes get a hand on it.  And then it slithers away.
I curse and cry and rail. I am despondent for days. Huddled in a corner, thinking desperate, jagged thoughts.
Wishing for a glass head, where I could see them. See the words whole and complete. Find a way to shake them out like pepper onto paper. So many black flecks with ideas and plots and dialogue and meaning.
I emerge eventually. Sometimes I am refreshed and ready. Sometimes I am cynical. Sometimes I am joyous. Or angry and bitter. Often I am all of that, all at once.

Because I am made to see again that the words never, ever abandoned me.
I left them.

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