I had the urge to write a poem. My hand was itching but not quite ready to lift up my pen. So I went for a walk. Walking helps the process. Helps me think but in a very freeing way. Thoughts of my life or work flit through my mind. But they don’t stay because something in the rhythm of putting one foot in front of another allows the thoughts to enter and leave without making an impression. This is good as my aim is to get to the point where I leave myself and my troubles behind. That I get to the point of being free, unburdened and open. Open to receive.
Once I become open to the environment around me, my senses kick in. I see things, but more importantly I start to feel things. Feel the air on my cheeks. Feel the concrete shudder through my legs. And then smell. Diesel, cut grass, midget gems.
And so it goes on the more I walk. There further I walk away from me and the closer I walk to inspiration. And an impression is made upon me from the outside world that I carry back with me inside to my pen and paper. And usually the impression is a colour. Burgundy today.