Tell it to the words when they won’t stop forming, tumbling from my cramped fingers onto the keyboard of this phone I hold close to my face, because it’s 4 o’clock in the morning, and I can’t find my glasses in the dark.
Tell it to the thoughts that grow out of nothingness and the fullness of emotions that feel constrained by polite living, the day-to-day movements and busy work that suppress and hide them.
Tell it to the words crashing helter-skelter in the tumbler of the bingo game in my mind, the fragments of experience and strings of conversation…tell them that they should just stay.
Sit.
Back down.
See if you can.
I cannot.
The words will come. Sometimes I myself am taken aback by the surges of power, the intensity of their composite nature. Sometimes they feel sad, as I write, my fingers curl into the words like hiccups in the rain…the words themselves feel angry and impatient. I rarely find myself writing joyfully, although the joy is there in the silence between the spaces of what reads like a dirge or an ode to the fallacies in my existence.
But always I write, drawn to the glow of the notepad on my screen, like the millennial-old pull to quill, ink and parchment.
I write because volcanic-like, the lava will flow, and because volcanic-like, the pressure must be relieved.
I write, too, to connect with other humans, because it is unbearable to stand on the other side of the chasm of unknowing, and experience the awful realization that words, if you had only let them when you had a chance, could heal.
Words are sutures to gaping wounds of misunderstanding; they correct and connect the fragments in you, and the pieces in me, and that is mostly why I write.
Also, because I cannot stop. I don’t have it in me.
