My notebook. Picture Daphne Buter.
I was writing something beautiful. I think it was the beginning of a great story. It was a story about air. It was about nothing special, yet. It was just the beginning of a great story about zero. After some time I began to detest what I just wrote, so, at one point I wrote that I stopped writing and that I went downstairs and watched TV and after some time I realized that there was nothing on it. Then I saw the room was just as empty as the TV screen. I felt captured by something eerie. I noticed our cat was sleeping deeper than dead.
It began to rain. The rain was heavy and fell from a profound purple sky. I watched that sky for maybe fifteen minutes. I saw things in the heavens that would make a great story.
BTW, it is still raining and the North Sea rose, and while I write this, fish swim in and out my womb.
3 comments:
beautiful writing indeed. This is wonderful.
What I love about all your pieces is how you always take a little dip into the imaginitive wilds.
Thank you both, for visiting this hovering place, and for leaving messages.
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