While eating enchiladas

I let the mariachi music flow through my bones. My soul was warmed from the inside out and my mouth tasted of cinnamon and chocolate and warm bread.The music charged my mind as an array of colors floated through the slurred smooth words of the mexican music. Even though the divey atmosphere screamed health violation and food poisoning, I was transported away on the wings of the drum and guitar. I was in a small village at a festival. There were steaming hot cauldrons of food, loud music and laughter. Children ran through the dust and women dancid. Men joined in on their instruments. But as the music faded and thesong came to a close, I was sucked back into reality. There I was, back in the crowded mexican restaraunt on possibly the grossest street of whole city, staring mindlessly into that small mexican village.

just another thought suddenly turned to gold

I feel the need to write. To let my precarious thoughts tumble out into something perfectly worded and thought out to a t. But I realized this just the other day:
writing is imperfection. Writers tend to be hard on themselves. Seeing only the bad in a piece. It's like survival. Even though you have food, you obsess over the fact that theres no fire. So today I made a promise to myself. I would let myself write freely and obsessively until my fingers are raw and my thoughts are shaded. I would enjoy writing and think of it not as a chore, but as a simple tool to completely let myself go. Imperfection is perfection, because the best piece of writing is one that is raw. So from now on, even my most simplest and non-deep ponders will be a piece of gold on this silly little webpage.
until once again
flywriter