“Love is a rose. Every petal an illusion, every thorn a reality.” – Charles Baudelaire, ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’
I haven’t been in the mood to write lately. I think there’s a part of me that’s vexed by how much of myself I choose to put into each work. Writing a post requires a melangé of inspiration. And when I can, I take all that’s inside and weave it into obscure, mangled words, just as obscure and mangled as the far wailing walls of my mind. And right now, I’m coming up short. It’s never been that way with baking though. Baking is natural, just as natural as deep breath and even deeper hunger. It’s easy to dream in sweet combinations, cake layers and flavour. And when it isn’t there, I don’t force it. But to write, well, that’s a different story in its entirety.