I Am Tired Of Trying To Hold

I’ve Missed You,” He Whispers Softly. The Air Between Them Is Electric As He Leans In, Gently Brushing His Lips Against Her Neck. In The Next Room, The Guests Complain About The Sudden Increase In Temperature. Fans Are Drawn From Colorful Bags, Fluttering Like Tropical Birds.

You Can Say Anything With A Post-it. I’m Not Entirely Sure Why That Is. Maybe The Friendliness Of The Squares Makes It Easier. A Square Is Nicely Compact And Less Intimidating Than A Full Page. And They Come In Cheerful Colors. Non-white Paper Is Kind Of Inherently Festive. Or Maybe Paper That Sticks Feels More Important Than Paper That Can Blow Away. (though You Can Move Them, If You Need To Put Them Somewhere Else.) They Might Not Be As Lasting As Words Carved In Stone, But Post-it Thoughts Will Stay. For Awhile, At Least.

I Paint Very Messy. I Throw Paint Around. So When I Let Myself Do The Same Sort Of Thing With My Writing, And I Would Just Write And Write And Write And Revise, That's When I Found My Rhythm In Writing.

The Circus Arrives Without Warning. No Announcements Precede It. It Is Simply There, When Yesterday It Was Not. Within The Black-and-white Striped Canvas Tents Is An Utterly Unique Experience Full Of Breathtaking Amazements. It Is Called Le Cirque Des Rêves, And It Is Only Open At Night.

Secrets Have Power, And That Power Diminishes When They Are Shared, So They Are Best Kept And Kept Well. Sharing Secrets, Real Secrets, Important Ones, With Even One Other Person, Will Change Them.