Blurred Photographs
I haven’t faced the blank page in a while, was I afraid of trying to give order and clarity to the mess? Or was just afraid of facing the mess itself?
I can’t grasp the last month and all I got is a gallery full of blurred pictures that depict the speed I’ve been under, a few verses that don’t make a poem, a few ideas I can turn into a whole, scattered pieces, a broken glass, a broken heart, grains but not sand.
And still, over all the clutter, over all the dust that covers those pictures I keep scrolling up to, I know there’s some clarity and intention, I know I’m in the right road, in the right direction.
And still, sometimes writing is not about reaching a proverb or a certain end, but about the words themselves.
And still, life is not always about a goal to achieve, or a mountain to reach, to but about the moment itself.
And all of those snaps, will forever live as hazy photographs in our minds, as seconds that just happened to be there to be lived.
Thanks for reading!
Yours,
H.