“I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.” Sylvia Plath
Magic whispers to me in the moon-glow, and I am up. The rest of the house is aslumber. I toe softly through the darkness, brushing walls with my fingers, like a painter acquainting himself with a canvas. Coffee is in order, a robust aroma that trails me from kitchen to study where I tuck under a Plains Indian wool blanket and a cat.
Slowly the world outside unfurls, like the pages of an ancient book and I’m buried in a nether world of my own. Forbidden love on vanishing beaches. Ivy-covered doors embedded in ancient trees. Sweet notes of beach roses on salty air. Abandoned rooms and missing staircases.
My story is warm, the birds are beginning their day-song, and I’m right where I belong.