An early spring day and she notices buds everywhere, on trees, bushes, colored fists of flowers impatient to explode. Something aches inside her, the bud of her heart struggling to bloom. And as she walks, she watches the children swinging in the park, a small plane circling in the sky, people cruising by in their cars, stereos booming. The vibrations of spring, of change. Everyone desperate to get out of winter’s cocoon. Following the urge to bloom once again.
When she returns, she stands in front of her apartment, gazes at her car; wonders how far she could get on $5,500, luck, and a good resume…
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Thought is the blossom; language the bud; action the fruit behind it.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson
A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.
-- Gaston Bachelard