What Sticks

When I first started writing-Big pictures and broad, grand strokes.

I chose poorly in wanting to only write large life altering, grand moments. When they were few and far between, I invented them, poorly. Too much of what could have been written, shared and explored lost in an insistence on stark, filtered light.

Part of growing as a writer, I guess.

Now I prefer small frames and shades of gray.

Entire stories existing in a simple moment. Choosing the blue shirt because it matches the brown pants. Coming out of a river on a summer day, covered in muck. In the coffee shop, ordering dark roast.  Pressing the bruise on my neck. The heaviness of the door when I walk out to get the paper. The beginning notes of  a song. Smell of cinnamon rolls on a Saturday morning. Opening a  window to let Autumn in. Driving  alone at night, windows down, nowhere in particular.

I wish I could convey it better, at a more fundamental level.

I wish it mattered to you, only because you matter to me.

What sticks first goes unnoticed.


About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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