Every week, a little piece
A writer falters, questioning if only sadness could evoke the pretty words. Happiness, it seemed, filled her cup. She couldn’t draw from it for some reason. When the cup was empty, dried-up: corners cracking, bits of old coffee stuck at the rim and dregs of long-ago teas lying at the bottom, she saw webs in dried froth — of intrigue, mystery, forgotten things and unsaid words; and like a soothsayer, she prodded bits of the dregs, found fortunes and futures in them.
But what could one see in a full cup? A ripple now and then, maybe. But the calm sea stirred no story. It reflected back to her with content, her own joyous face.
And so, to lament of the past and present, to wonder and ponder over the complete draught of words, she picked her pen to write.
“A writer falters…,” she began.
