Wordsmith.

Abstract.

The sleepy snow has been falling asleep a touch too soon.
I took a step from inside out and was accosted by the cold.

Fanatical shit.

So like anywhoos. DOOM.

I’ve been relaxing these past couple days and nights, trying to collect my thoughts. My mind is very vigorous, too much for its own good. I’m always thinking about something.

Exams. Those things. Those sly things. Haunting. Lurking. Slithering. Lingering. Two more weeks until they emerge, make their way towards me. No diggity, I’m not stressing. I’m way too cool for that.

I need Q-tip’s album. Enough said. I don’t buy albums much, but this is one that I actually…want. I’ve heard some songs here and there and I was blown away into out-her-space. As soon as I heard “We Fight/Love” and “Believe”…my mind was massaged and my ears were caressed. I know what I want for Christmas.

I played ball in the RAC for the first time in eight million centuries. I was on a high as soon as I walked in the gym. “I feel so good” was all I kept whispering to myself. Just holding the orange ball, gripping it hard with soft hands, centering my eyes on the tricky rim and releasing RAC ball #6 into the seemingly sheer air felt like a dream. Women hardly enter the gym for sports like basketball, and so when I was in there, the guys were overwhelmed with emotions, ha-ha. I had a smug look on my face: “And what motherfuckers, I play basketball and I for damn sure am not leaving right now. Deal with it.”

Life is great.

Here's a little freewrite I just did that probably doesn’t make a damn bit of sense but that's just how I do.
What this means? I don’t know.

Wordsmith.
I’ve got a rising love jones for words. I love how they slither across my lips as I say them, roll off my pens and pencils when I write them. Express. The way they crash and clash, collapse in front of my eyes; enthuses me. The way they love and become one; intrigues my soul. Sometimes I can’t take it. The sound makes my mind quiver. Shake. Vibrate. Lose control. I don’t know what it is. I can’t tell you. It’s a secret to be discovered, by me and you. The uncanny shapes, coils and curls fill me with sensations, penetration of pleasure. They fill my crux, they fill my page, my letters of pleases and thank-yous. Words are extraordinary. They fill me, my lost person, shielding me from the heavy rain. Words are at my selection waiting for detection as I long for their fond affection. Words – they are me to you.

Later Days. *waves*