Its things like this – getting to a diner early with a chance to write – that I live for. I may not get to write a lot, but the fact that I am allotted enough time to write is refreshing. It seems to compliment me in some deep profound way.
When I write at such a time, in such a place, it makes me feel significant. As if I am some sort of professional writer, journalist, poet or observer. I feel this way because everything about these places brings me life (as did the winds and rains of yesterday): the conversations, the familiarity (on my part and theirs part), the lighting, the comings and goings, the senses (smell, touch, sight and hearing), and the memories of days come and gone – even if they are the memories of others I am unable to unlock.
*An excerpt from my journal on 7-29-11*