Sitting next to a real writer who publishes articles on art and literature who shares with me only the last name, i had given up to marry , and am thinking to re embrace..
Once again i am finding it difficult to return to the cave of the writer using words to dig myself out ..
Once again i am finding it difficult to fence in the goat i have become devouring leaves and stepping over beliefs ..
He is comfortable in his position, a published writer whose words penetrate through doors that will never ever let me in.
Waiting for my soya coffee to arrive as evening falls and the last dressed up people leave a memory of a mad dress up festival when it was alright to be what you always wished to become .