Dueling Writers

Living in the city where it is too beautiful to be inside and too hot to be outside fills our days with contradiction

Reading fiction over a lunch of wilted lettuce leaves and a piece of crusty bread allows me to avoid the crowds and mask the fact that I am eating alone

Someone else has put pen to paper or touch to screen or whatever and it has resulted in the lines I’m reading

Lyrical prose about the same city that is choking me with its heat hits my mind’s ear with rhythmic beats

Referencing a Mami and a Papi we could have all had in a different lifetime

The words jump off the pages like a song of melancholy

When did being young become so hard depriving us of the air of joviality

When did having clear vision cloud our way through the roads of contentment

When did our cup get so full, so quickly and so effortlessly that we drank gallons of apathy instead of small rations of hope

Envy clouds my judgement as I continue reading

Another’s words is the only intangible for which I covet thy neighbor’s talent

Luckily it is not a commandment, at least not a real one

So I continue to read and the fiction blends with the truth that I know propelled its birth

There is nothing but veracity and experience in the fairyless tales of this being

I keep reading and I reach the end

Harsh and abrupt and real –  this end with the line of to be continued

There is more to write and more to share but the drug has given its last high and now I need to wait

Writers as readers and editors are the worst junkies sitting in their crack houses of inspiration

We imagine the next section

We invent what is not on the page

We project as if we were the author

And somewhere in the place where green is the hue of feeling

We wish we were

writers

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