What I keep returning to is this: behind the construction, behind the careful arrangement, something sits that will not be argued into existence. You catch it the way you catch a sound in another room. You stop, not sure whether you heard it. By the time you move toward it, it has either gone or it was never a sound at all, only the room settling, only your own attention turning back on itself, finding nothing there but the habit of listening.

Most of us have had that moment, the hand above the page, the pen not moving. Writing is reaching. I know what I am reaching toward …

© KD.W.Heim