I love writing. Both the action and the idea.
I love to writing, conjuring once insurmountable and intangible problems into small insignificant, and tenable symbols saturated on paper.
I love prose, how words ebb and flow, like harmony in an arpeggio or tension from a dissonant chord.
I love ostentatious words; Ebullient words that bubble and froth from the author's soul, words that sweeten or fester. Winsome, wild words that settle on your tongue like rich oily foods.
I love the idea of writing. Pen scratching paper. Ink saturating pulp. People perusing paper piece by piece. Page by page. Letter by letter. Lingering on each letter like a lover. Solemn at the silent abyss of each space, each punctuation.
I love stories; Lies that speak more than truth. Some - reflections, shadows, ripples of a fading past. Bridging past and present. Building foundations for the future.
At this moment - your past, my present - I am at a coffee shop at the cusp of evening. Sky blue with a tint of orange.
You are a father, a student, a mistress. You are in a dark room, in a dark house, under a dark sky while the world around you sleeps. You are on a subway wearing a tie and suitcase, heading to work. The train pans, tilts, bumps, and bruises. A passenger behind you coughs. Another sneezes.
Wherever or whenever you are, you are with me, across time and space, sharing this moment.
Since we are here together, let's have an adventure. Often Zhan - Journal (1/18/18)