I haven't found time to write in awhile, and I'm not sure why. I definitely don't think its because I've finally figured out the answers to all my questions, or the way that the neurons tumble through my brain.
In attempts to pollute my brain with the thoughts of writing, I've been reading back on some of my older posts lately, thinking about how much has changed yet so much is still the same. I find solace that some of my questions now have semi-reliable answers, and that I have seemed to at least find a steadied floor underneath me.
As I read, the syllables tumble through my brain and bring relief while also bringing that heart-tugging burn into my throat. I can feel the words swirling through my lungs, pushing their way into creases-es, looking for escape. Looking for me to write them out and let them live.
Yet I cannot seem to bring myself to help them out. I feel them cry out, sting my eyes, pull my stomach down like the immanent drop of a roller coaster, yet I cannot help them find the exit. I've become selfish with my treasures and I do not know why.
I just don't know why.
I want to write, and to find a resting place for the tidal wave of characters. Rip out the roots and plant them somewhere else to grow; stop them from pulsating in my veins.
Sometimes I fear that when I die my blood will be black ink and the inside of my body will be an endless tattoo of adjectives and verbs. They throb within the marrow of my bones and tap out Morse code beneath my eyelids when I sleep.
These words are there -- I know it. But why am I suddenly so afraid to explore what they want to tell me?
Why cannot I find the time to breathe the life into them that they in turn breathe into me?
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