Perfect Moment

Been reading some of Saul Williams works.

"even my pen man ship
throws thoughts overboard
into a blank ink sea

and how many thoughts perish
before they reach the page?"


I'd forgotton how much I enjoyed reading poetry.

Actually, I'd forgotton how much I enjoyed writing. Curling up with a pen and a doggied exercise book. I'd write on trains, at home, at cafes, in libraries. It came to feel like an extension of myself. It felt like I was doing somethings special. Weaving together thoughts and ideas, collaging, getting lost in the meanings of random connections.

The best works I've read seem to revolve around the theme of love, or more specifically, unrequited or unfulfilled love. I don't know why we don't feel complete on our own. Never satisfied. I guess it goes way back to the Greeks. That whole idea of being divided and feeling incomplete. Constantly looking for that other matching shoe, that lost sock. Our Adam. Our Eve.

Spring is here. You can smell it in the air. Change is on its way.
I can feel it in my bones.

Good night world. See you tomorrow.