Go

This blog has been gestating for a very long time. There's something inherently arrogant about putting one's thoughts into a public forum hoping that they are interesting to someone else.

But the urge to write will no longer be denied. My brain reels with words.  I like words.

I like words so much that once invited to speak it is practically impossible to get me to stop.

I like words so much that they fill my head the way I imagine other people's heads are filled with art, or music, or numbers. They swirl.  They dance. They clutter up the space, banging against one another to get out.

And because I have haven't written for myself in a very long time--I'm a pen for hire--the words I want to say tumble out in a rush when I have someone to speak to.  I am frequently inappropriate, too candid, not listening, happy for an audience.

They are harsh and directive toward my son.  They spiral into regret after he has gone to bed.

They are seeking approval with my mother, and with authority figures in general.

They are lies to grease the social machine like "I would love that,""Let's make plans," and "It's not you, it's me."  They are all true when I say them; they are made false by time and my unwillingness to commit.

They are indictments, tools for self-flagellation that hold me back and fill me with shame.

They are rational, calculated, fantastic, exaggerated, evocative. Ideas excite me and are given words before they are even fully formed, exiting my mouth noisily, shapelessly.

I isolate myself in the service of my narrative and then find myself struck dumb by the blank page.

I break my own heart.