Oh, there is a necessity in writing, penning my thoughts, journaling or whatnot – for how else will I capture the moment as it passes; what happens if I should forget those minute details, or worse, what if I forget that moment – to be gone like an exhale on a cold morning?
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment — but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer? ~Lord Byron
What do you do with your thoughts? Your intentions, they're called, those words that you think, but, have no home of their own. I have notebooks, little spiral ones filled with reams and reams of thoughts and dreams. Some ateamier than others. Words, solutions to problems, math equations for school or work or any occassion, as long as it flows in the numbers persuasion. I can't keep up with the books everywhere, on top of the desk and under a chair. It needs to be repaired, try not to stare. It's uncomfortable, you know.
As long as it is Tuesday, coming right up, let's throw up a tree, let's give it a whirl. It seems to be antsy, just sitting in place, needing to move, but, the diaproval rate. You know, for moving away from the normal routine, thinking out of the box, just like I have been.
Words and I can be the best of friends, helping each other, from beginning to end. Shall I write of the glory or make it a muse? I'll check my inventory, what pictures, in fact, will go with the story. There are days I fight every word I write, no sense whatsoever, no meaning to the end. Shouldn't it flow or my tongue just like honey? Sweet and delicious, right to the end? Today is another day fraught with no plot. No beginning, no middle and it can only pray for the end.
If you write in the forest, can it take away your words? Are they yours or theirs or whoever calls first? Laid out there for all to see, when all I should do is put up a tree. When will I ever learn this language called words? What to do, where to save? Will the words just drift in until they escape? Or will they dive right in from the edge of the page, hoping to keep you fully engaged.
Wherever you are, whatever you do, come back again and talk to me soon. You never know, I could attempt to write again, but, all things being real. I'll end right here and possibly start over again.
A tribute to #TreeTuesday and its host 
Wrapped up in loveliness, a random "color someone a beautiful day" today. As always, there must be a flower to color my world. #alwaysaflower Thank you for visiting my post 💖 Because of you, I come back to post, again and again. Keep it classy, people. Kindness counts. Wherever you go, whatever you do. As always, keep on singing that song!! And just like that, this post is over. From beginning to end, I'll do it again, probably tomorrow. Thank you for stopping by and saying hello, leaving your words behind.
All I have are my words, armed in my mind, written in pen, stand by stand. Oh, yes. Still by hand. It has a different feel. Altered not by keys, backspace, and delete, I write, erase, tear it to pieces and start all over again. And again.
The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
TS Elliot