Something always brings me back to you…
I have always thought about writing as an act of getting naked.
You come home to yourself, drop all the baggage on the floor, peel your clothes off and throw them into the laundry bag of yesterday, wash the glitter down the drain, dust away the day’s worries, and slip into the comfort of your own skin. You close the door and open your heart into words that ebb and flow, much like the quick typing and sudden backspacing, moving onward, backwards, onward again. Fingers that slightly hover over the keys, much like pauses between conversations when we let awkward silences between what we say and what we don’t say magnify what isn’t there and what we don’t want to hear.
But ultimately, we write.
And it is within the jungle of words and hanging vines and lines that we try to make sense of the chaos in our mind. Eyebrows furrow deep into what we are not trying to say when we want to say something. We choose chaos, and chaos chastens us into submission. Caught in the middle, you try to meddle and get lost and wonder…what were you trying to say in the first place? But in the first place, there is no first place. There is only now and you try to stay with it, but you lose yourself and that’s fine.
Sometimes, you need to get lost to get home.
Author’s Note: On second thought, no. You may skip this part where I butcher (oh kind words) Sara Bareilles’ Gravity. I will not be held responsible for badly-tuned earworms. #SirenSundays