An obvious requirement, as too many fine ideas obliterated by interruptions and loud proclamations by others.
Silence for two sentences to connect. For despairing over the weakness of a word. Too vague to convey what isn’t said. Too feeble to emphasise the foregone conclusion.
Silence for the birth of intuition, the absence of noise in exchange for the presence of peace within the pain.
The need for things to tenant themselves for a respectable period in the mind. Brewing thoughts, steeping them in the dry starch of sarcastic laughter. In the tumblers of tears one has lined up like obedient soldiers in a row, on the windowsill of the world.
The aftermath of processes where after the mashing and boiling, the liquid of things are left alone in the dark depth of the casks, submitting itself to the magic of time and fermentation.
Grasping first has to release. The palm must be empty to grab something new. Discarding the fear of scoffs and derisions.The letting go of stale and unwounded thoughts.
An exciting yarn that one pulls and pulls from its tight ball, where and when does it end? Like a curious kitten easily amused, jumping and flirting with a single strand.
Or an old lady unravelling countless of them. At once, with and without plan. The gnarled fingers feeling their way through the memory and mistakes of an old pattern.
For her, catharsis is a warm sweater freshly knitted.