i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

the act of writing then, is the fruition of purpose.

today is a day, however, where i have no idea what the next word will be,

the act of writing then, is the discovering of purpose.

my blog and i are old friends,

in that sense, i no longer have to think about it too much when i write,

once i hit the keys, they take a life entirely of their own.

these fingers,

they are like travelers going places.

they explore the warmth of these words, the contours and shapes of the letters.

they run over ridges and smooth away cracks, tracing the edges and their shadows.

these fingers have traveled well and far.

and they once knew you too.

they kissed the sides of your cheeks, entwined themselves in between your fingers,

they drew lines on your collarbones and wrapped themselves around your arms.

they leapt off the tip of your nose and discovered the tips of your lashes.

with one simple motion, they wound our loose ends together and snapped them apart.

now they are tired, and have come running back to the safety of these words,

reliving travels and journeys in a photograph,

and they work their way through memory, dust-covered and jaded.

now they are restless, and are eagerly awaiting the signal for the next departure.

where they are going, they don't know.

but that's okay.

the thrill you see,

has always been in the discovering.