I have been writing more than 200 words, but they are secreted away in the form of novels, collections, and scattered on Medium. However, this site was always a place of growth and pondering.
I have taken to reading with my coffee. Watching the interplay of birds about their business while I devour words that stitch my heart is a juxtaposition that finds joy. The sun follows me around the pool while I hide under shady branches whose shadow dapple the pages of my book. Ants trace routes beneath my feet, searching for sustenance to bring to the colonies. Men and Gods argue on all the pages ever searching for humanity bleed in ink.
This mornings insight on how I take my coffee. The warm companion whose cup starts with sweetness and cream. The French Press waiting to top off my cup with bitterness. By the end, it is a sour cup gitty and harsh. No taste of honey remains. Life who proclaims such succor that its bold flavor permeates each moment in crystalline grace will evitably succumb to acrimony.
Tomorrow brings a new cup with all its cloying hope.