If there's something I desperately want now, it is to write. To write endlessly and without a care or even a thought about what I'm writing. And write a poem after what I think must be ages, and a good poem for which I wouldn't have to try hard at all...easy like ink flows from a nice gel pen...a smooth green ink that shines a little against a white paper pregnant with possibility and breathless with anticipation...winding letters, small upright letters, little letters. Whether writing should be for the sake of writing or a cathartic exercise I haven't been able to decide. Just a series of words, side by side, sibling like, lover like, discrete, disparate, lonely...connected by an imposition they can only silently and mostly ineffectually rebel against. Does a smile and a laughter seep inside and travel deep inside through the narrow glacial arteries and reach the head-quarters of all emotions 'the heart' and down to the little toe nail? Imposition and appropriation and alienation are not just heavy sounding common words, they are the aftermaths of colonisation...mainly of intellect. I hope my resistance holds.