Uncensored

My words are not always words. Sometimes they are sounds. Hmm. Rrr. Rah! When I find myself feeling feelings so intensely this is how I communicate. Guttural. Staccato. Loud. None of this is practical—it's natural. When my lover and I connect, sounds speak when words will not suffice. 

When I write, I write to myself. Uncensored and unchanged. Free and untamed. Sometimes with long pauses when I sigh deeply, and a song or a movie plays in my head, and I wait. Wait until I am clear on my message. Wait until the weight of my father's pen pulls me back to the thread of my intentions. Memories mixed with metaphors, rhymes and rhetoric glide along the pages of my journal. By hook or by crook.

The journal is a document to return to over and over again. To write is to record what stirs in my soul, moments I place under a microscope. It feels good to swim in these familiar waters with memories and dreams afloat on the page. When I communicate with others outside this journal, I must work hard to focus on voices and the meaning of words. But here in this journal, the sound is only of one, one voice to record the voices of many. Now I sound schizophrenic. 

I let go of this fleeting thought with a smile. The pen draws me back as I draw each line. It's a pathway, and I take it, weaving along with the unknown and trusting where it leads. Perhaps there's no end, or maybe there's no beginning. Life flows like a river into the sea, reborn as rain and eternal springs into infinity.