Were I able to dislodge the torrent of thoughts from within the protective layer of bone that sits upon my shoulders directly to this paper, it would be black with full pencil strokes, overlapping to the point of futility. All available space would be consumed by graphite, choking the yellow that is the legal pad, rendering it unrecognizable, and imbuing the appearance of old school carbon paper, likely with functional traits as such, as well.
I must write to expel the thoughts whose ultimate goal seems to be to chase the normal from my psyche. There remains so much to be said. But the thoughts fight against the pencil, much like I fought against Iraqis, and much as I continue to fight amongst myself. How can I persist to be at such a loss for words, when words exact their punishment on me indefinitely, rendering me incapable of the respite of sleep even?
I consider quitting, but I didn’t give up my thirst for alcohol when I discovered that my refrigerator was void of the substance earlier. I somehow found the motivation to rectify that injustice. Yet, as I sit well prepared with the tools of the writer; Music, solitude, booze, and ample subject, my pencil continues to act as a magnet, fascinating the child me with its invisible repulsion from its equal, which always was its opposite.
I can’t help but reminisce about the words that come so easily to me throughout the course of my daily conversation. They manage to drip with my particular brand of humor and sarcasm that inform their recipient that I am who they’ve always known me to be, honest and rich. Still they remain a distraction to their brethren which remain so imprisoned behind my tongue, while their superficial peers escape the confine of ambiguity.
Should this prose be about words, it has yet to satisfy its requirement. Despite an abundance of language, nothing has been said. The many points eager to be shared have found no solace in their audience. And my pencil will continue to await the opportunity to represent its owner with truth once again.
