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I could close the door

Draw the curtains

Dim the light

Lay my head down

Bow and pray

Breathe and listen to the heartbeat

Lose all memory

Leave no trace

Swim upon the ocean

Float to heaven

And never return…




Art: Frida Kahlo, Without Hope, 1945



Writing is akin to the birthing process.

First, there is a silent prolonged period of gestation.

Then the pressure starts to grow.

When the contractions begin, it’s time to sit down to write.

And then it gushes out (or should).

No point counting the fingers and toes of the new arrival.

There is no turning back.

One cannot edit out a sentence just as one cannot cut off a limb.

It’s born.

And it speaks.


Art: Leonid Pasternak, The Passion of creation