On Writing

Sometimes I try too hard. I use big words and call things what they are not. And for the moment I am proud. I say, look at me, I know words. But I don't.
And in two months when I look I am disgusted.
Sometimes I try too little. Sometimes I just take the words out of my eyes and put them there on the paper. And they sit and stare right back.
They're just there. Like lumps. Sitting.
But in two months I become the two-month-ago me.
And I am proud.



Sometimes I wish I had a net to catch my thoughts so I could keep them in little jars on my shelves and admire their glow.
I am always writing, writing.
But sometimes I am typing. Sometimes my fingers are flying, flying over the keys.
So fast.
But my thoughts are winning the race. They are breaking the speed limit. And I can't.
Sometimes I have a pencil, and it feels right in my hands. And I write. And it is good.
But slow.
Too slow.
Sometimes I have a pen and it glides, rolling, rolling over my paper's angry teeth. But smooth as it is, it is still slow, slow, slow.
Most of the time I just close my eyes. Most of the times I just write in my head, and let the words race through on their way to nowhere. I smile and watch the show.
Sometimes I try to write them down later. But they are the sweet fading pieces of a half-remembered dream. And it is wrong. All wrong.
Most of the time I just close my eyes and watch the show.
Most of the time no one gets to see but me.
And maybe that is enough.
As long as I am writing, writing, writing.