What is the one intangible thing you treasure above all else?
Intangible, meaning: you can’t touch it, feel it, smell it, hold it, see it . . . it may be a character trait, a personality trait, a quirk. . . a feeling. . . .
Prompt: Write about something intangible that you treasure.
Photo by Jane Person
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The Spirit of the Writer
The spirit of this creative writer was born on a fast flying cloud before being released by a flash of lightning, only to turn up naked, carried by a wave to a distant shore. From there he will lose himself in the depths of graves, mingling with old bones, sifting through dust looking for the heart of a hero or the soul of a herdsman, seeing through the eyes of a beggar. He sees the multitudes worshiping the hero, and lives for a moment within the serenity of a herdsman, and feels the clinging hope of the beggar as he receives bread from a stranger. I am running the same course that writers before me have run, feeling the same sun, drinking from the same streams, meeting the changes they must have met while on their pilgrimage road.
I’m the Spirit-of-Love grown older. I’m the spoils of a long walk, capturing the last misty rains, offering my rosy fingers of fire to warm any face. I am a fabulous opera, a whirlwind, a Cimmerian shore, I am the deadly sweetness of infidelity.
You’ll find me in the darkest of nights, in central parks, in every shopping mall, pool room, and deli, ordering a carrot salad or chicken from the spit. I’m every river that went to every ocean, every moment, long or short. I am the outside and the inside, the distant and the near, the magician and the rabbit. A mansion, a stony-end house where dancing stands still. I’m the lateness of the hour. I’m the wind that drives fallen leaves through iron railings on autumn days. I’m those quickening footsteps leaving a hotel room, and I’m the snow falling in Amsterdam, on Spanish steps, and I’m those whispers heard in San Francisco doorways.
I’m the son of a fisherman, the face of many, the heart of all, and I’m quite simply the space on which these words must fall.
Wow, Kelly. I am in awe of how you do this. . . string consonants and vowels together and come up with pearls on a fine line. Simply gorgeous writing. Simple? Nothing simple about your exquisite writing. IF you are writing a novel, I would love to read it!
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