when the paintbrush is dripping

Then here I am having a reflection. I was moving up the escalator at Bayview Station the other day and I thought to myself, how wonderful if I have the ability to name everything in this world, how wonderful if I can label and pinpoint the exact word for every object I see before me, or how about being able to capture every swobbling of the slightest tilt of emotion inside of me with the exact phrase, how wonderful would that be? I buried myself in the Cortazar book I bought at Indigo, finished reading the first two stories before I got off the train. At night, there were thumping sounds coming out of my basement. I thought there were ghosts in my home. I looked outside the window and saw my people moving things into the house next door. Why move things so late at night?

Then I thought about the matter about being heard. Being heard and wanting to be heard and thinking of a way (and doing it) but yes, having to think it first, of a way, a way, for my message to get through the people. Part of this process that a writer like me might get blinded about is the idea that when I tell something I need to tell it from the other people's perspectives. I want to tell for people or do I not want to tell for people or is it valid to only tell for myself? My train of thoughts is broken. It might come back and it might not. So it's best I let it go and get back on to what I need to do.