Late Night Thought
I used to think that literary analysis was a ridiculous practice. I couldn't imagine the writer of a book or poem would intended each word to be a symbol or metaphor, representing a better life with brighter wings.
But then I wrote, aimlessly and inspired. Words flowed like the faucet left on while a careless girl brushes ivory teeth. And I did not know what it is I wrote, just what I felt when I wrote it.
A handful of visitors, friends, strangers told me of my writing. What my words mean to them, and what they think they mean to me. I do not know if they are right. I do not know if there is a right. But sometimes, after hearing their analysis of my words, I don't think them wrong either.