Tick, tock

I withdraw from blogging for a while to work on my short story draft that should be in by March 6. I've been thinking of doing this story for months, but now that i actually have to do it, I'm at a standstill. How to choose images, symbols, words, themes, out of the dense and throbbing mass in one's mind? It's never a done deal. Things keep changing shape, and I never know what I'm looking at. I read a page out of a book and see a mirror. I write a sentence and find luminosity. The air bristles with strings. If I don't look at a chair, it ceases to be a chair. The universe is made of paper that can easily burn, yet it has not caught fire in four hundred billion years.

This is what writing does. It keeps me constantly on the verge of something, and always in the present. Even the past is never past, and the future is a tapestry woven long ago by women who cry at the loom.