Composing truth creatively is hard.
I’d rather let it rise, like the ending of those goodbye hymns. Those swaying and swelling and hard-time hymns. Those that live under a silent sigh and eyes that smile.
It’s the brush of hair against your neck, the hands settled on your hips.
Truth is, I wait too much. I stop, I pause, I linger in that moment before the comma. Or the period. Or the next letter.
I usually wait for these words, ready for them bubble until the stream flows too fast, until I’ve just run out. And then I wait again, ready for the next surge, the next wave to crash through me.
But I guess I’m starting to question my methods. Inhabiting a creative space means being present, yes, but it means pushing. It means bending the words, the shapes, the rivers of thought until they hit the mark. Until the momentum swells and the heart rises and the punch swings and it’s over, and it’s good.
Maybe it’s the moment after the dive, when the coasting ends, the decision to make your own momentum.