The place where I write

I, a lonely lover of linguistics, search for a spot to speak. I clamber over mountains  of myth that contain the broken bones of forgotten words, lost letters that constantly cry out to be used again in the songs and sonnets of heroes and ancient races. Once whispered in breathless sighs between lovers or shouted out of the angry mouths of warmongers they now lie without a place to call home. I stop. The vibration in the air has changed. A subtle breeze begins to burrow into my nostrils as I breathe in the scent of lost love letters mingled with childishly written birthday cards to fathers and mothers. This place has no end and no beginning, it has always been and forever will be. In this  shadowed realm of infinite possibilities and scenarios to be picked like precious pearls from a primeval sea I begin to feel the thin veil sunder. Two worlds start to join as I hear the sound of the traffic outside my window. This is not a comfortable place as I’m brought back to my senses to a more concrete and solid state.

In front of my desk looking out onto the apple tree in my garden I am reminded that there are places in between the one where I sit. The scribbled sentiments on the page are not only written in many worlds but from different times that converge in that one moment to find a place that they can call home. This place where I write is a consecrated circle where spells are written and cast, where literary homunculi are formed from subterraneous thoughts to walk without wires. Places are never completely physical, they are anchors to a space where the muses live and who whisper in the wind.