This shouldn’t take too long to write. Charles Bukowski said that if the words don’t come bursting out of you then you should not write. That if you are writing and rewriting, then it isn’t for you. But I know it’s for me. Because the words are disabling. And the more I consume, the hungrier I grow and the pit deepens and hollows and rounds out and I am frustrated. It doesn’t poke with sharp corner it just sits in a circle within my soul and I… That’s the thing I don’t know what to do with this space. It has created itself: the excessive need to profile and gratify. And not being received. Claiming it is for me then why am I posting it? Why not write away from the internet? Use a notebook? A typewriter? An app that requires no wi-Fi?

I don’t write for others, I write to breathe. Through my words I experience and I experience my words – false or true, they live through me. Soaked. I am soaked with it. And I cannot breathe. The words I want to say skip me and I feel like I am not being heard because I am not being read. But then again I don’t want to read. Some days I want to scream words LIKE THIS. Other times I want the quiet to do all of the talking… All I know is I’m not living by literary rules anymore. Words are my life. I don’t know how else to articulate. And they intensify me with a burning outrage I will succumb to eventually.

It is why I am silent most times – phrases and sentences dancing in my head instead of outside my mouth. I am afraid of the weight they carry. I’m afraid how I will pour.. no.. DISINTEGRATE. It is why I listen. It is why we are stunned to silence when mania occurs. Because no words can express how we are feeling. Writers know how to express that feeling. That is why I am obsessed with song lyrics, off-hand statements and even Twitter – the bombardment of words soothe me. They provide articulation for when we are at a loss. That’s my process of reading. For years I have lived through my words but now I wish to become mute. Now I know why Maya Angelou was mute for so many years.

“My mother and her family tried to woo me away from mutism but they didn’t know what I knew: that my voice was a killing machine.”

I know exactly what she was talking about. And it’s why I don’t talk often and when I do I am pelting.

It’s always “be careful what you say” and all of that and I get it. I get it I get it I get it I get it. What you say will, can, should determine a lot. Your voice is a communicative device that you should not take lightly. It can’t be rehearsed.

Why do you think they call the Bible the word of God?

Why choose this literary form?

It’s primeval that history would pass down stories orally, so why write things down? It seems advanced, no? Is this why canon is so mutinously elitist and scholarly? There is a subset above other genres that writers relinquish in. It is how we grade one another – from the use of templates in writing our ABC’s to the exams we write later on in life. Even the blind must write in Braille.

And then there are languages. Why so many? Linguists stupor. Most West European languages derive from Latin, English probably being the most skewed. There is a house style that operates in how we say certain words, pronounce them. Words hurt without weaponry: their effect based mainly on affect and tone. I could write for forever and be understood through my words, even to the deaf and unheard.

I don’t know what else to say since I am all out of words so I will end with a period.

I was going to add a picture to this post but I’ve decided not to.

After all I want the focus to be on the words.



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