I’m sitting in my bed and it’s after midnight. The blue patterned tapestry over my bed, like a canopy in some ways, is moving slightly in the breeze from the open window. It’s August, so the window is always open at night.
There is something so writer-esque about this image. Or at least there is to me. Is it possible to be too full of words? Can you have too much poetry, or the desire to write poetry, in your mind? I wonder.
I’m feeling very inner poet. Or outer poet. Or am I a poet at all? Maybe I’m just in the mood to explore where a word will take me. I started playing around with the word Chartreuse the other day. I never got far, but the color made me just think, in a happy way.
Colors, like music and weather and such, affect me. I can’t imagine being blind and not being able to see the vibrant hues and the subtle tones of life. The color that is everywhere is forgotten. I think sometimes people don’t pay enough attention to color and how it might affect them. Color is always a part of my life. The red of a ripe raspberry, the salmon peach of a Calendula flower, shiny turquoise nail polish, yellow enamel like the brightest canary. Those are all bright colors, but I also love the charcoal reddish-y color of poppy seeds. Soft tans and browns, faded blues and purples. Tuscan red. The colors that invoke fall and winter.
I feel a bit crazy. Like I’m too full of thoughts that are spilling out. I wonder if being a writer will always feel like this. Maybe not when I’m uninspired, but when words start bombarding my fingers to be let loose, I wish I could just dump all my thoughts onto a word processor that would take all of the thoughts, order them properly, then print them out so I could see what it’s all about. Having to have a starting point and figure out what words to write is aggravating. I feel like I might lose them all.