I want to write.
I want to speak out with my voice and in my own language, and be understood.
I want to be able to move when I talk, in the way my body wants to move.
I rock, I pace, my leg bounces when I'm sitting.
I talk out loud to myself, I grunt and make small noises from time-to-time for no apparent reason.
I speak.
My thoughts crash through my head at break-neck-speed while my mouth attempts, in vain, to keep up.
And even more in vain are the efforts of others who try to tie together my words and sentences bestrewed before us in a sometimes jumbled mess.
My speech is riddled with gaps, small but annoying fissures, where words or complete thoughts have disappeared much to the frustration of my audience.
I know what I have said because I have said it in my mind; the sentence having passed by like a stream of lights flashing the message on an electronic sign.
You miss the parts I cut out as I speak and I don't know this until you stop me with a quizzical look and verbal cue that I've seemingly strayed off on another tangent.
Back to the written word.
These characters we have trained ourselves to recognize as readily as the thoughts that pass in our minds.
The structure punctuated by even more characters. Symbols, that substitute for vocal inflections, the rise and fall of pitch, the tone.
I play the music, loud, repetitive, to keep some corner of my mind full and occupied so that I may concentrate fully on that part of my brain overburdened by emotions, thoughts, pressing against the thinnest of membranes able to hold them all back.
My fingers tap against the keyboard, sometimes inconsistently, waiting for the next wave of thoughts.
I feel the rush and in rapid-fire sequences these mental images of words are transposed to the screen of my computer.
Words used to exist on paper for me, scratched into place with pen and pencil.
These works lay stored away in a folder, waiting for the moment I stumble upon them again and pause to reflect back on my life.
Writing frees my mind.
Yet still, I am misunderstood.
I want to draw.
I take pen to paper and allow my hand and mind to unconsciously describe a line, an arc, a shape.
I add to these with as little thought as possible.
Sometimes the pictures take on a randomness that is beautiful.
Sometimes the pictures take on a randomness that is confusing until you look beyond the largest of images, breaking up the parts, scanning for small intricacies that connect with something in your subconscious, evoking memories, feelings, or... perhaps... just more confusion as to what I really mean.
I have said it all.
These words I leave for you.
Fini
_________________
fides solus
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LIBRARIES... Hardware stores for the mind
Last edited by wsmac on 14 Sep 2007, 3:24 pm, edited 1 time in total.