Something about imagination, or creativity, or the beat of my heart

The characters, they come to me in fits and starts.  I get a glimpse of a face, the dart of an eye.  Sometimes I know what they're thinking, though I often disagree.  Occasionally a mannerism will come to me, and I will say, Yes.  Yes, that is exactly right.

Some days the words don't flow, the thoughts don't come.  I sit in a crowded place, staring at passing strangers, willing them to tell me their story.  When nothing happens, irritation seeps into my bones.  We are all human, I think, All in this together.  Why won't you help me?  But they continue on, unconcerned by my plight.  I think, I'd do it for any of you, if you asked me to.  But then I think, Would I?, and I turn my face from them in shame and despair and a sharp loneliness pierces me and suddenly all seems lost.

And then I spot a child.  He has fallen.  He is teetering on his heels, trying to right himself.  And that's when it comes to me.  It's true.  I've remembered something I must have forgotten along the way.  I internalize it, accept it, name it.  I think, It's true:  there's always hope.

I wrote this yesterday.  Sometimes, the words, they do come.

--

In the wonted gaze of a comfortable lover
we take solace
though the urge for what we know must be yet to come
tugs and claws at the tenuous fibers
stitching us whole.
A raw need we choose to ignore, in favor of--

Well excuse me for preferring my security blanket tucked
snugly around me
the way only one used to doing so night after night
can manage.

After all, what is so wrong with peace?
with tranquility?
Am I not like you?
Am I not to feel the warm presence
of all I have worked for and hold dear
by my side
through the long nights?

I think I'm entitled, too,
to a little contentedness.

To a small space inside each day
Wherein I can close my eyes
And breathe.

Not for you
not for me
not for--

Just the air
in, and out
the way it was meant to be.