I can't be bothered, not any more. All those wild words once seemed so vital. There was an urgency about heading out there each morning, tracking them down, rounding them up, capturing them and bringing them back here to release them onto the empty white space of the page.
Once I had caught them and brought them here, they were mine – or, at least, so I thought. But the words never belong to anyone, not for long. Soon they have to leave, just when we think we are getting to know them, they are gone, out there for a new life beyond our control.
She was the one who brought me so many words. Each morning I would walk out there, into the unknown, into the dew and the mist and she would be there waiting for me. She would be ready to take my hand and lead me on, down to the valley with the stream where the words ran free.
She would bring the words to me; each given with a kiss or a caress and I would feel the love with every word she gave me. I thought then that she would be there, waiting for me, every morning, waiting just for me, ready to take me by the hand to the valley where the words run free.
I never expected it to matter if I missed a day or two, busy chasing after those other women that came to see the words I spread out on the page for them. Then, one morning when I climbed up her hillside through the dew and the mist, she had gone and now I no longer know how to find my way back to that valley of words.
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