I bought more journals today.
It is the pattern of things, the calming behaviors, the repetitive motions.
It’s the thumb sucking rocking back and forth.
It’s the coping mechanism of someone with too much on her mind.
I found myself in front of them, bound and set, lined by size and color.
A new shipment of them newly arranged.
I ran my fingers along them.
Grids, lines, plain paper and cubed.
I found a set I’d been wanting for a while and
justified to myself that
this makes sense and
I waited properly like
a properly insane
addict would do.
Unwrapping the plastic and smelling the paper
not quite like a book
more like a book
All the possibilities of things to say,
I think that’s what I like so much.
A signal to myself that there is something in myself
needing to get out
and if I keep giving myself places to put it
maybe it will come.
I used to think that there was no use in writing because
all those things had been said.
Unlike the imagination of youth I struck cynical gold with this
idea that I had nothing new to give
so I didn’t have to give anything.
Then I found the words
and the feelings
and the experiences
and they cluttered up my mind each forking off
into new things.
Things that never happened
things that could have happened
people I’ve met and
people I’ve never met.
It became overwhelming to think of all the the things
that I was thinking
that no one had ever thought before.
How can I write it all down before it slips away?
How I can I write it all down and share it?
Here, take a look, my thoughts
unique and original, first time ever
Instead I stacked these loose-leaf thoughts in piles in boxes in closets
opened up the next one for print.
I pour words out of my mind like cerebral excess, pour-over,
ice cream melt.
And I never thought to wonder what to do with it all
once I figured how to get it out.