I suppose I write to keep myself sane. Everything makes sense; things fall into place. Not like the hazy words that frame my mind and the random sentences that crop up without reason – they are like hailstones that hurt and obscure. They rain on me every now and then, and I try to keep up, I do, trying to decipher them before they hit the ground and melt into oblivion. But I fail. That is why I write.
I write so I can force them to come together, bound by the rigid rules of grammar and punctuation, come under scrutiny and direction, so I can stop the never ending tip-tap, tip-tap, the chatter that never breaks.
And when I don’t, when I can’t bring myself to rein them, they seep down into the very core of my being and turn into a murky moor that engulfs me. The quicksand of broken thoughts and emotions suck me in.
There is hope yet.
I sit down and throw my soul a length of rope, crafted with syllables, strengthened with the bold strokes of allegories, similes and rhymes. A string, a song, a story.
Till next time.