Hemingway said
there is nothing to writing.
Just sit down at the typewriter
and bleed.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe the words have to come
from somewhere deep.
From old wounds.
From places we would rather hide.
Maybe the ghosts need to come out
and walk around for a while
in this tear-stained valley.
But sometimes
you just sit down
and look around.
A sleeping cat on the bed.
A coffee cup on the desk.
Pill bottles beside the television,
little reminders
that the years keep moving,
like little soldiers.
A golf tapestry above the bed.
A room full of ordinary things
that somehow became a life.
Shadow sits on the desk,
watching the sparrows
in the elm tree outside.
Her eyes locked on survival,
the old instincts
that have kept creatures alive
for thousands of years.
Then suddenly,
she shifts her attention
to the woman in the hot pink shirt
walking down the street,
headphones on,
lost in her own world.
Maybe that’s the work.
Not just bleeding.
Not just breaking open
the places that hurt.
Maybe it’s also noticing.
The small things.
The strange things.
The beautiful things
that pass by the window
when we finally sit still
and enjoy the ride.
The beautiful things
that pass by the window
when we finally sit still
and enjoy the ride.
I think you are both correct.
You can sure bleed ink well Mr. Case
Bat
Thank you, my friend.
Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Another classic write with excellent storytelling and precise imagery my friend. It’s also nice to see that “Shadow” has earned a reoccurring role in your writes. She seems to inspire you brother. Amazing read as always. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, my friend.
It’s definitely the noticing. Being present. And then letting the bleeding begin. The way you share a story or a thought always amazes me. It reminds me of sitting quietly on the porch as sun goes down, listening to someone reminisce or ponder life’s journey. I love that your cats so often play a part in your story 😊
Thanks, Willow.