So I am floating, I am a young sleep-deprived mother, dreaming. I have survived my childhood. Work on the novel will begin soon. The Rape is a year away. The air, in slight flux, has coiled around and is driving all that ignores gravity. The narrow sunbeam is the headlight through the shadows and so the stone face of Buddha momentarily startles. Then delights. I frog-kick towards the statue. I am as big as its nose. I desperately wish I had brought my camera.
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Ana, consider your Temple Dream understood. Yes, Lacunae are the missing words, the unwritable, the unsayable. They are out there with the stardust swirling.
On with the novel aye!
Thanks. I appreciate the support. The zen of not writing is taking me to unexpected places. I’m just following along. A very exciting process indeed.