writing to or not to.

Love. I love many things, and one of them is writing. I absolutely and always have loved to write. I recently found a journal entry from when I was nine saying how I want to be a writer (or a Marine biologist, president, prime minister, queen of england), but that is besides the point.

This has been a dream of mine for some time. This verb should come so easily to me, but the longing has diminished. I can't tell whether my obscure arrangement of words are doing me a favour or if they are a flaw. Do I continue procuring obscurity or do practice order?

Now that this thought is off and afloat, I can start my paper, due in 14 hours.


Why do I dream of Montana? Thoughts of days spent there move swiftly like the many flowing rivers. I wouldn't even try to count the days, count the ways I would drive along through counties named like Cascade, Park, Granite or Big Horn. 

I would pack up the little silver bullet, filled with food and goods, and take off on a trip of my own. Maybe I'd be gone for awhile? 


Reading alone in the silence of my room. Reading aloud at a party with a bunch of people I sort of know- want to know- knew, and do not know. But what's the difference the next day? I'm better than I was the day before. It doesn't matter what I do at night. 

There is a lamp that stays on most of the night across the back lane. Shadows stir, cars go by. The trees move like performers of a slavonic dance. Fast and fierce. Snow falling outside- inside I am like a backwards snow globe. 

Winter is coming. I can be found at my desk, in the company of good friends. Perhaps watching the world go by from inside a glass bowl.  


New name.

But I'm still the same.
I'm no longer "There's-a-girl-out-there"
 It's been almost 4 years. 
From Flora.