I feel as if I’m forever writing in the same words. Like there’s someone trapped in my head trying to convey a message to me so they can escape.
Or maybe it’s just that some words appear to me more brightly than others.
I enjoy the sound “l’s” make when they’re next to “a’s.” Actually. Calm. Lake. Later. Always.
Or the gentleness of “p’s.” Please. Pour. Whisper.
The roar of an “r.” Fire. Relax. Regret.
Plural sounds are also lovely. Secrets. Whispers. Melodies.
Then there are the words which consistently appear before me. Loaded like the next round of word play ammunition in my fingertips. My relentless metaphors spilling forth for another mention. Shadows. Eyes. Water. Trees. The moon. Reflections.
It seems that I can walk the winding path of words yet trip over the same ones time and time again.
I may stretch to select a different affair from higher up in the trees to amuse myself for a short while but needless to say I will always return to those firm favourites on which I build my imagination.
The repetition of these words has worn them in to the ground.
I tread the same footprints like my favourite walk through the woods.
My most cherished words are trodden in to the ground for two simple reasons.
Firstly: if I am to build from the ground up, it provides me with a faithful foundation.
And secondly: if I am to lose my way and fall on my face, then I will be met by my heroic words whose vitality glistens like sea shells in pavement cracks, ready to alight my mind anew with wonder.
A spark for creation to begin again.