104. A walk between two bridges. (23rd Aug 2015)

It’s a few months since I passed into the third year since the creative writing began properly, with the kind of regularity that has made it now feel a natural part of who I am. This is part of the first unfinished snippet I found myself collecting.

Thus the first four lines here are now over two years old. It was the first piece I’d given up working at, though not in the negative sense, in the sense that I stopped worrying at it and moved on to the next, knowing it would be completed when it was ready.

This felt light, positive, almost like an affirmation of what I was now doing from it’s very beginning. And as some of the early extensions to the first four lines felt like they wanted to darken the picture, I put it aside to wait. This mornings daunder had me with a mind in the right frame and a stream of words in the right tone. I’m glad the four lines have friends now as I’ve always liked them and wanted to see this finished. Maybe another way to put it would be to say, sometimes you have to forget where you are to find out where you should be going.

104. A walk between two bridges. (23rd Aug 2015)

On a sunny August Sunday morning,
On a walk between two bridges,
I’ve ample time to take stock,
Of the fountain these words come from,
And it seems they go just one way,
From the head down onto paper,
Least that’s how I see it,
As the words rhythmically appear,
On my well used tablet screen,
But maybe as I wander,
My senses they replenish,
With fresh memories and sensations,
The old words with new ones,
That with luck will find a way,
To make themselves known,
On some future different day.

© Jim Laing 2015.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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