Where do I stand
in the mist of all these books, each offered as an appetizer, waiting for me to take a bite of the sensual crumbs as if I could get a taste of myself.
I can’t help but feel captured by their presences, that I have to prove myself to them, get to know them, dialogue with them.
When all I want to do is release and love, lean into the discovery within the pages of creativity, the place where a child sits in wonderment, playing with her books, setting them up for a tea party.
We converse over tea the books and I, conversation is a willing intellectual passings, from one book to another. And me, I would be the open book with random writings and some empty pages.
I would not want to fill myself up, certainly not with ideal chit chat but with meaningful phrases that with each inking would create another empty page.