I was so afraid to write sentences.
It was easier to pen short bursts of inspiration. Rhyme had reason and hid meaning well enough to entice the reader. Song had melody to fall back on, a brace that held an otherwise loose string of words.
Prose had nothing but itself. No scaffold. Naked. Alone. Bereft.
There was a time when She and I held close quarters, never apart for long, colliding in a beautiful chaos. We danced. We ran. We hid. We played. We dug and buried the treasure, locking the door to the secrets found.
Then... the silence came.
Quietly, not forcefully. Like the gentle sleep that takes the last breath.
I floated for a time.
A message in a bottle, washed ashore. Cliche. Then the chaos stilled as the words walked away.
Now, once more, She's come courting, dancing through my mind, coercing me to stop mid-street, tap out each syllable, lest I forget the colour and movement of the phrase. She whispers in the night tantalising, vaporous notions and I awake, scrawling before the fog lifts. It is exhilarating yet exasperating to commune once again.
Neither friend nor master, Prose forces me to consider context; to develop meaning and create purpose. To question and challenge. It is difficult to recall each line. I must pause, despite the inconvenience, to capture each and every thought. It exhausts me.
This is why I've held her at bay; why I have kept her chained, imprisoned and carefully monitored.
Lest she make a fool of me once again.
Miriam E. Miles
I write despite trying not to. I cry and bleed and laugh into the page. What you see is what you get.