I write.I write that my words might spring to life and dance right off the page. Dance right off the page and drown into the eyes which are so eager to devour them. But they float and they swim in those pools, the cortex and retina and perhaps they turn, Upside down and then right side up. Up, down, left, right. But just maybe they are in such a way alive that they might jump off the page and into the mouth to become the lump in one’s throat. A quiet, resonant nervousness. A palpitation of anxiety at how right they might be. How true their forms might consume— And into the gut. Where they turn the stomach into knots and are all but vomited back up.
They are all but vomited back up.But then, they may be so alive that they vibrate on the page, In such a way that only the Heart can understand. In such a way that the house you were born in and the smell of your sheets and the fondest feelings of her small hand lacing, (it all comes racing back) Lacing her fingers in yours once more. Maybe those words are so alive that they remind your perfectly vulnerable, red, beating Heart In only the language that a Heart would understand. Maybe those words are so alive that they remind your Heart that Maybe those words are so alive that they remind you it is still alive, too. ________________________________________________________________________________
Alexandra McCullough is a writer of love and hope and brokenness. Inspired by Louisiana roots and a passion for the human existence, she carefully crafts her words to move; to become living, breathing entities that resonate with the souls that hear or read them. Her words are for you.