This week as I unpacked one of the few remaining boxes from my move, I came across some writing I had done for a script about 5 years ago. Such discoveries often induce eye rolling, laughter, or even embarrassment, but I was delighted to find that I still like much of what I had written so much so that I want to continue working on that script & am inspired to write more altogether.
It's somewhat inconceivable to me how much of our lives & ourselves we forget. I cannot really recall setting pen to paper 5 years ago & writing the things I recently rediscovered. I don't remember carrying around that 1 1/2 inch black binder with loose leaf paper and a blue pen. I don't remember opening it up, turning to a fresh page, and jotting in cursive ideas for scenes, character names, and bits of dialogue. And yet, next to my bookcase (next to because it's too tall for the shelves) sits that black binder, a piece of my life & thoughts that I had completely set aside & left behind. With as many items as I discarded prior to moving, I'm glad somehow that I did not accidentally throw out that old writing.
Nestled between the bits of script were a few poems. Here's the one I like the most.
It wasn't the kind of sunrise
people paint masterpieces of
or even desire to share with the one they love
It wasn't the kind of sunrise
to captivate the skies
or about which anyone writes
But it was the kind of sunrise
that made the birds sing
I stood there waiting for the moment
when the sky would burst into the brilliant display
I had been looking for
But the dawn came gently that morning
A soft touch of pink and the fading moon
the only indicators of its arrival
Yet the birds sang on
No less excited to greet this day
than any other
As the night gracefully bowed to the day
over this city of questionable angels
I thought to myself
Maybe the birds know more than we do...
It's somewhat inconceivable to me how much of our lives & ourselves we forget. I cannot really recall setting pen to paper 5 years ago & writing the things I recently rediscovered. I don't remember carrying around that 1 1/2 inch black binder with loose leaf paper and a blue pen. I don't remember opening it up, turning to a fresh page, and jotting in cursive ideas for scenes, character names, and bits of dialogue. And yet, next to my bookcase (next to because it's too tall for the shelves) sits that black binder, a piece of my life & thoughts that I had completely set aside & left behind. With as many items as I discarded prior to moving, I'm glad somehow that I did not accidentally throw out that old writing.
Nestled between the bits of script were a few poems. Here's the one I like the most.
It wasn't the kind of sunrise
people paint masterpieces of
or even desire to share with the one they love
It wasn't the kind of sunrise
to captivate the skies
or about which anyone writes
But it was the kind of sunrise
that made the birds sing
I stood there waiting for the moment
when the sky would burst into the brilliant display
I had been looking for
But the dawn came gently that morning
A soft touch of pink and the fading moon
the only indicators of its arrival
Yet the birds sang on
No less excited to greet this day
than any other
As the night gracefully bowed to the day
over this city of questionable angels
I thought to myself
Maybe the birds know more than we do...
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