There are times when I am writing and my pen flows across the paper so freely that I re-read it days later and I do not remember writing it. Yet there it is, staring back at me in my hand writing or on my computer screen.
It is like my hands have a mind of their own and they know that the words are inside my head waiting to be formed into some semblance of coherent sentences.
Then there are the times when my mind is so crowded with thoughts and ideas that my fingers are going across the keyboard making mistakes while I am trying to form paragraphs that make sense. Like tonight, my thoughts are jumbled, I am sitting here my fingers flying over the keyboard, backspace is my best friend tonight as I am correcting the errors my fingers are making because they are unable to pick up the slack and write what my brain is thinking fast enough for my liking.
Half started ideas, fragments of paragraphs dancing across the screen. Black letters swirling, flying across the editor as I write, correct, fix the mistakes my fingers are making.
To say it is frustrating would be an understatement. But I am happy. Bliss. Writing.
I have to write, its like breathing, take it away right now and I will be nothing. Writing is so important to me, helping me to make sense of some of the jumbled thoughts that are inside my head. Getting them into some form that makes some sense. At least to me.
Each letter, each word, each sentence, each paragraph, all a part of my existential self.
Writing is a form of therapy for me. When I re-read what I have written I can feel what I have felt, or even feel what I wasn’t able to feel at the time it was written.
I have written pages and pages, books on top of books worth of my thoughts. I just never shared them, until now.
I still wonder at times if sharing them is the right thing to do, I wonder if any of the things I write makes sense to anyone else, or if it is just me that can pick sense into my jaded and jumbled thoughts.
But still I continue to write, to share, in hopes that someone will connect.