On the Importance of Appreciation

Some people write from the heart. Their ink is the blood squeezed out of their insides. Their slate is polished clean with the powder of their bones. They reveal a little too much of themselves in what they write and this scares them to no end. This scares them to silence because in every word they write, there is a tiny image of themselves cringing at the thought of being scrutinized in the light of day. They tiptoe around the world, in time and in space, mute and unseen. They camouflage themselves well, in grey and black and white, waiting for the time of day when everybody turns away to mend their minds for the day to come. Candles are lit, hidden treasures are dug out from underneath the rubble that is used to cover them hastily and examined, and brains are wrung till the last drop of feeling is extracted. The raw wetness is hung out to dry till the sun catches it unawares, when it is hurriedly hidden again. What do we know of these people who don't want to be known? Their art is glimpsed only after their passing when the iron chest that they've stowed it away in can be cracked open without disturbing their peace. What do we know of the dreams of ghosts who speak to themselves alone? 

Dropping by

I'm posting this for two main reasons:

first, because I'm guilty of neglecting this space

and second, because these are possibly my favourite lines from a poem:

Half-writ poems, stories wild,
April letters warm and cold,
Diaries of a wilful child,
Hints of a woman early old
-- L.M. Alcott