On The Pleasures of Not Writing

I am beginning to crave days I have nothing to write
The sky lurches forward, draws to a close
and falls on the sea. Sea life rouses at the
friction of waves. The parallels tumble out
like the husks of seeds on a windy day
until the stars jingle, marooning idle lovers

In such days
language is not democratized. There is no need to
share the priceless art of encasing words into diamonds
then waiting miserably for people to buy the phenomenon
of rippling like a single drop of rain in a dusty terrain
for what is writing for people who want nothing out of it?

There is a serenity that arrives without
over thinking and over feeling. Ever written the same story
repeating feelings, only phrasing new words? It is
this kind of mutation that is freewheeling but old enough
to make writers aware, that the world only adapts and
at times it’s good to experience it rather than worry about writing


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