Sometimes I read a poem about something ordinary (like the description of an orange) and feel nothing. I catch myself judging it, as though its ordinariness is offensive.
Then, I think about my own writing: its smallness, my quiet attempts to matter. I imagine someone reading my words and feeling the same thing I felt.
Yet still, I write.
The last couple of days I’ve cherished some small moments. Sometimes, if I’m very lucky, I’ll have the space to write them out in my head. I admit this happens the most when I’m with my dog. Probably because she can’t fill our moments with words, so I must fill them for us.
The day after Christmas, we cuddled together on my velvety couch. Her face tucked into my neck. I could feel her happiness mirroring mine.
If I don’t write about it, where does it go?
Thoughts?