I was recently inspired by a wonderful memoir by a dear soul to start writing my own story.  It started off as just a random project that would follow in the steps of most projects that I start.  Laying somewhere on my bedroom floor.  Well, it’s been about three weeks now and I’m at page 115 with close to 30,000 words.  I still have twelve more years to write about.   It’s become a passion that I didn’t know that I had.  I’ve shared excerpts with a few random unknown people, and have shared almost all of the writing with a few close friends.  I’ve received wonderful feedback and I’m very excited to keep up with it.  I find myself wanting to do nothing but write.  I’ve never written so much in my life.  It has also been very therapeutic for me to write my story.  Reliving both the good and bad memories.   I’m emerging as a different woman then I was when I started this journey.

Love

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.