Inklings
Inklings are high-coo calligraphy. Intentional accidents. Attempts to capture words from the tip of the tongue and spit them joyously onto the page. To frame images of the ineffable in a collaboration with chance. To make space for meaning to find itself in marks that record a dance.
Inklings are creatures too. They emerge wherever imagination gives them air to breathe, where attention flows like water and crystalline eddies flash. They rush to the surface for a moment, leaving messages written in ripples, then back to the depths they dash.
Inklings are feelings free. Feelings that whisper in wind-currents while they tickle your chest. Feelings that gurgle in glistening springs while they frolic in your belly. Feelings that boom in the dark of night while they startle in your heart, that hint like the trees that make the moon wink. Feelings that glint in your eye when the sun warms your body, that dapple your tongue with the faint scent of adventure…
Inklings, they say, cannot be grasped. But then:
I hear you can catch a laugh.
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