You Only Think

by Philip F. Clark

You think you’re not writing a poem; you think you’re not writing a book, or making a painting. You think you are procrastinating. But that’s just your mind vibrating — the real poem is being written, the novel, the dance, the portrait is being created by the person on the inside, who is saying, “Remember this? Remember how this felt? How can you express that? What is that object and how did I recognize it? What is that shadow and where does it come from? What is this hurt and how did it get here; are there other maps for this pain and who has them? How do I talk about happiness, as if it were a soft shirt, or an old love? What is silence, and how did I come to visit it so often? Why is yesterday still here but every day before has not even started? Did I feel this against my body and will I feel it again? Why do I calendar my feelings, before they have had their May or their January?”

You only think you are not writing.

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