Writing is like breathing.
I don't mean that in the uber-poetic sense that authors full of cliche inspiration do.
I mean that thinking is something we do all the time (well, most of us... some of the time... you know what I mean), and that sometimes thinking involves big thoughts. Not that we think for the sake of big thoughts, but that sometimes that is what our little ponderings become, and what do we do then? Sometimes those thoughts just need to be shared, or we want to share them. Or maybe not, but for some reason we attempt to articulate them anyway. And then we run into problems... or, at least, I do.
Thinking is like that breath in. It starts innocently enough - just doin' what you do to keep tickin' - but then the thought keeps going. You forget to stop inhaling because the taste of the air is so completely intoxicating. Then you start to get that drunken butterfly feeling and you're not sure whether or how you should let all that breath burst back out again.
That's where I am:
Noticing.
Observing.
Absorbing.
Pondering.
Contemplating.
Ruminating.
Wondering.
Utterly overwhelmed by the silent commotion between my ears and in my chest. The drunken butterfly.
How do I say it? I have a huge bubble of air inside - so big that my cheeks are puffed out now and my eyes are bulging. Will it all burst forth in a whir of spinning nonsense? Or will I only breathe out part of the it, and the other parts stay locked in? It would hardly be sensical to anyone that way either.
Oh, words!
Perhaps the most sacred of thoughts cannot be said. I could believe that. Routinely, I loose mine on ivory-visaged strings. They speak for me... to me... in spite of me. Music is a sacred language, and I have grown up with it always in my ears, buzzing in my fingers.
Perhaps, though, words are just as much a temple of those enigmatic musings. A different, more concrete kind of music - scary for me, maybe only because I am not as fluent in this language yet.
It will take time, but I want to be patient. I want to breathe.
I want to inhale deeply, confidently - without fear of coughing my exhalation. I want to respire with meaning. The air is intoxicating, and I want to soak it all in.
And maybe, one of these days, my breath will leave my lips as a faintly poetic wisp of words.
