HeartStrung

wind singing through pines i walk alone, with nature as my companion

I can't focus. I've been sitting here for almost two hours.  I write a sentence. I delete it. I write another. I delete it also. I don't know what I want to say. Everything feels forced or dry or boring.  This is my favorite work.  Not this part specifically, where I'm sitting here unfocused and deleting everything I write because I'm judging what my fingers peck out. This part is pure torture. In this space, I feel fairly certain that I was not meant to do this work. I've convinced myself numerous times in the last hour to give it up, "it" being more than just this so-far-failed essay.  But I've been here before. This part is where I always start. Even when my thought-writing produces something brilliant, as soon as I sit down to write it out something changes and it no longer seems as worthy or important as it did in my head.  No, this is not the part I love. But it is still part of the work.  Type without judgment.  Dive deeply into descriptions...

thinking of the why's trying to understand you i can't get closer Photo by i.am_nah on Unsplash   

blossoms unfolding their scent, their beauty,                        this is  joy, a world of color unfurling

  people are waiting hoping i speak something profound but i am completely empty

Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash    A mirror cannot hold complexity,  inner beauty, three-dimensionality and reflect it back.