I am intrigued by you.
By your inspiration, your process, your thoughts.
Where do you sit when you write?
Do you pen it or tap tap tap?
At home,
The study, the office,
a cosy corner café with wi-fi?
Within procrastination city
You are not In Real Life.
Yet I know that you
Breath and make love and you cry.
Here you share platitudes.
Gracious with each other.
Funny.
Jolting.
Hidden.
Reality in here
can be the reality of anonymity.
I am real.
This is what I see when I am writing.
I wish I had a long dark room,
silent in the night to the world of Mummy and Carla,
With wall to ceiling bookshelves,
sighing under the weight of sturdy spines and wordy words.
Instead,
There is a gum tree outside,
and here on my desk
is the only plant I haven’t killed.
Yet.
I smell vanilla and paper.
And see
Scattered images, attempts at inspiration.
Today they are little squares of mostly me.
Little me.
I was as real then as I am now.
Yet before me they sit
like the avatars of the one hundred and forty.
But I tell you that it’s true…
I am real.
And so are you.