Jessica (Fearless Photography)
Lost words.
If only you knew how rarely I stumble across it. This makes three times. It would be easy to find if it could be defined: studies conducted, equations written, articles composed for the yellowing journals, to be folded between dusty pages, stored in the back corner of a poorly-lit room scattered with stacks of other yellowing journals. If it could be found at need, scribbled down, and folded back into its safe coccoon of fading, even lines of type, I would never mourn its loss. I came close to catching that drifting melody not too long ago--only twice have I held it in my hands, to marvel at it. I barely felt the brush of that piping melody this time, before it wrapped me, wound me, smothered me, then left me gasping, marveling at nothing but the empty heaviness of my hands.
Old words. New picture, taken on the hike to Machu Picchu, in Peru.
Lost words.
If only you knew how rarely I stumble across it. This makes three times. It would be easy to find if it could be defined: studies conducted, equations written, articles composed for the yellowing journals, to be folded between dusty pages, stored in the back corner of a poorly-lit room scattered with stacks of other yellowing journals. If it could be found at need, scribbled down, and folded back into its safe coccoon of fading, even lines of type, I would never mourn its loss. I came close to catching that drifting melody not too long ago--only twice have I held it in my hands, to marvel at it. I barely felt the brush of that piping melody this time, before it wrapped me, wound me, smothered me, then left me gasping, marveling at nothing but the empty heaviness of my hands.
Old words. New picture, taken on the hike to Machu Picchu, in Peru.