Inspiration

Goes where I go

Roman Newell
The Interstitial

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Photo by Quentin Rey on Unsplash.

Writing requires form, beauty, and convention. Scattered over the City like ash. Being both what it was and what it is. Carried on whorling winds through vortex tunnels. I see her.

Smoky sultry shadow mistress like a slow settling after nuclear holocaust. Black dahlia painted on the City. When I go inside her boroughs I leave the keys to the locks from my past. Suddenly it’s not about opening doors. It’s about opening correct doors. The intention of putting pencil to paper. Knowing what you want to say. Connecting streams to ocean. Taking constellations out the sky and stenciling over the Earth.

She bites her lip. A cherry broke open. Becomes entry and exit. The only passage. She’s my optic. A lens for turning light. Which makes her a prism and me refracted.

“I love that your writing is wide open to interpretation.”

I say, “It’s kind of magical isn’t it? Giving that much power to the reader?”

She looks at me with huge dark eyes where spaceships get lost. Event horizon. Taking my light. I hear. Faintly. The sound of fluttering wings.

They say don’t write words for her unless you have to. Because she is poetry and poetry is the shape of wind. How oxygen feels. Poetry is a class best taken quietly in the woods. Best taken in the noise of big city…

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Roman Newell
The Interstitial

Busy working on my novel, 20XX. I also talk about the writing journey on Substack. romannewell.substack.com.