shades of spilled paint


When young light breaks sky
     like seven shades of spilled paint,

I want to be that energy.

So went a little poem I wrote ages ago, or so it seems, in January of this year. We woke up at sunrise, the first night in our new apartment here in Royal Oak. A hundred miles from home. We had a little money, finally, but nothing else. Only a suitcase of clothes and some groceries. No furniture – no couch, no tables, no bed, no matress. We slept on the floor, on blankets.

And when we went out that morning I couldn’t help but feel the energy of the way light falls on everything like fire – on trees, on the ground, on our faces. Before the world wakes up and starts living, the sunrise breaks its way through horizon and clouds. A fresh new day starts in brilliance, full with the energy of promise.

I have decided not to import entries from my old blog. But I don’t want to get rid of them either. They came from a different world entirely, a time when I was naive, hopeful, ignorantly blissful and desperately poor. A girl who wrote “Isn’t it fun to have dreams? Isn’t it fun to be 23 years old and believe that you can be absolutely anything in the world?” I can’t help being cheesy sometimes, really, I can’t.

And no, by the way, I am not a whole lot older now. But my hope is that this blog (and the inevitable self-titled domain of a writer) will come from something maybe a bit wiser. I’ve finished the degree; I am a certified brooding writer chick with no job prospects (not that I wanted one anyway). A new city, new life, and 1.5 years older. A lot can happen in a year and a half.

So, here we’ll start.