Words. They hover in my throat and in my wrists. Waiting to be spoken. Written. to make their way to my tongue and fingers respectively, and then to jump from there, out into the world. Outside of me. But there they sit. Rotting fruit. Different ones pass by them without so much as a passing glance. These ones, for example. But the words that need to leave me so badly can't. Because they don't know their own names. How can a word be known to the world if it is not known by it's owner? How can a feeling be expressed if it's owner does not first allow it to be felt?
Writing is the process by which I have always come to know my feelings... when the feelings were first allowed to exist, and merely needed to be understood. Or at times even named. Right now, I have too many feelings going on at once to let any one run it's course long enough to be whole. Just as it seems one emotion is about to come to fruition it is rudely cut off by another, too impatient to wait it's turn.
One thing alone makes sense.
I am not numb.
Dull and dizzy, but not numb.
Mute, maybe, but not numb.
Thanks be to God, I am not numb.
not.
numb.
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