As is evident from even a cursory examination of the post dates of this website, it’s been a while since I clicked digits on keyboard with the intention of creating or, as was the case this evening, put an actual pen to actual paper. And, as I’ve recently kvetched elsewhere about my lack of writing time and/or how far off-track I’ve come, I figured maybe it’d be best for me to publish something proving that cheap tequila, a darkened bar, and singing along to maudlin songs doesn’t necessarily mean one cannot or is not creating.
It ain’t much, but it’s 163 more words than I had last afternoon.
Some hearts are meticulously wrapped packages—thin, crisp-cornered, glistening green, adorned by crenellated red ribbon, and carefully positioned underneath the tree. And some lovers, well-intentioned but with such zeal, are greedy preteens bursting from bedrooms, descending steps three-by-three, only to leap the last five entirely, and land hard on the knees. They clip the crimson trimmings with teeth, shred that emerald paper ’til it resembles the rind of an orange devoured using only the mouth.
In such cases, the mind beholden to that heart is an anxious parent on the couch, clutching a cup of something once hot gone cold, quadriceps clenched, legs tucked under butt, patiently waiting to see if the delicate present once within has survived such enthusiastic exposition, or if sellotape and an explanation will be required for an attempt to reassemble that thing frangible and handmade which, no matter what, will never be the same, and would possibly have not been wanted by whatever lover in the first place.
