Tomorrow, tomorrow. . .
Tomorrow I will write for fun. I will play. I will roll and tumble through sparkle bright, glitter glass, ornament ideas. Fields of long green grass will beckon and I will answer. Shoes off. Running. Laughing. Every word will glisten and belong to me. Just me.
Today I write for money. Every word is weighed and valued, a price put upon its black spiny head. With this word I will buy dog food, with that word I will pay for gas. With those words—those superlative ornamental adverbs that got sliced and diced—I was going to buy a dress. But the dress is gone. The words erased.
I write. I live. I breathe.
Tomorrow. The long day of sunlight will belong to me.
Today. The long night of angst and barbed wire words that refuse to be born; today belongs to me too.
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