On Writing
written by: Dawn Dalglish
It’s getting late as I write, and the words get softer and thinner as I go, deceiving me with their brilliance.
Oh, what a sound the air makes when I am empty of words. Like a vacuous black hole, sucking the whole world in as I write nothing letters on blank pages filled with holes.
Needlessly writing gibberish to quell the need for substance, of something more than that which can be written.
Or felt.
Felt like a tribe of lions roaring into the night.
Exhilarated by that thought.
The thought that trails off, as I lose it.
Lose the point.
The point I was trying to make.
A pencil blunted by the extravagant sharpening of it, until it falls off. Afraid of itself and its sharpness.
Of what it could be if only it didn’t lose its point.
- On Writing - September 4, 2023
