Alone.
It’s your cup of choice.
Later, others will be involved.
Much later.
When there’s something to see.
When’s there’s something exciting.
But not now.
Alone. You create a conversation.
To make intangible, tangible.
It’s your life.
Word after word after word.
Hoping the pages catch fire.
Hopefully…
Match after match.
Lit.
But not lighting.
You have to ask questions that no one will ask.
You have to see how no else sees.
You have to risk comfort to define the uncomfortable.
You have to fall to your knees, when everyone’s standing.
You have to get on tippy-toe, when everyone’s taking cover.
You have to go there, not knowing where there is.
You have to write and write and write
Only to delete and delete and delete.
Progress not in pages.
But in sparks.
Each match that burns,
Each word that falls flat.
Taking you closer.
To that sentence that smolders.
That paragraph that begins to catch.
The page that people will truly see.
The piece that changes something…
In you.
And in those who read.
Because they’ve seen the spark.
They’ve felt the same heat.
They’ve had the same thirst.
You give them a glass of water.
Your fingers burnt and blistered.
In pockets.
Only you know.
Hundreds of used matches.
One catches fire.
