changed

It's not different
exactly,
just better timed
I suppose,
hotter,
or perhaps not as hot
enough to hold,
to grasp and evolve with.

I write and I write. I compose in my head, in the car on the highway and winding roads. In the shower, the bath, in bed drifting in and out of consciousness or while walking my dog. Over and over the imagery emits through my head. Topics, notions, feelings, thoughts, emotions perceived and sometime acted on, it's endless the words flow like water. Like water atop a waterfall or like water from the faucet in the bath. Seductive. The words like the water are cloudy at times and partially opaque streaming down with rising steam. The words passionate in meaning give way to heat, the heat of choice; choices presented to but not always widely taken or pursued.

The heat is unbearable; too hot to ignore it just clicks somehow. Somehow change becomes apparent, it just happens without control. I wonder if I can write fast enough, will I miss the chance, will I find myself back at the start again.

It's not different exactly, just better timed I suppose, hotter, or perhaps not as hot enough to hold, to grasp and evolve with.