Today he told me on the phone that pain only initiates the art and that my beautiful words then flow afterwards.
He is wrong.
When a passionate emotion owns me (beit pain or lust or love or hate or exhaustion), it drives every word I write. There is no eloquence in starting a sentence with it and ending it with another.
It is his way of living with the bump in joy he causes me. Bump down. Bump up. All cause.
I write it. I feel it as I write. It is good.
If you read this and feel the ride then say. Tell him, he is wrong.
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