Was on a hot trail with Marquez, or any author who manages metaphors and whether they know it or not, whether it’s natural or naturally ingrained from experience and if they’re aware or if not, if they smile when they recognize something, frown when it’s pointed out not as they meant.
Poised ungracefully over the keyboard of that part of me that’s grown onto my lap, with title typed, ideas bubbling slow enough to catch them and pin them to screen, yet threatening to simmer to boil. A simple but audible question asked, an answer brought up from inside, reluctantly raising like bile to my throat, brushing my heart though it gave it its best of wide berth, leaving bruises. But the thought dies behind lips barely open to whisper the words.
Once more reality reigns with supreme and unforgiving power, unwilling to share its blunt clarity with the vagary of creative relief. I’ll chew, eat, digest the real, it is a part that stays with me. But then I’ll get back to dessert.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology