posted on: September 12, 2008

I don't know why this is my entertainment, why words bumble against each other in the oral day-to-day but flow fludily through my fingertips while gripping a pen or pounding on keys. So I try to make sense of why the written makes sense. I write about writing. But sometimes I fear that what I type and what I live don't match up. Briefly said, I fear I am a hypocrite. I say and do rash things, that on paper can be edited out in the second, third, and fourth drafts. But once released into conversation, cannot be scribbled out. I am one who should be under obligation to think before she speaks. But my mouth doesn't listen well. I tend to speak how I think, hapharzardly and passionately, knowing full-well that I can't backspace when the need arises and sprinkle softer words about after veiwing the harsh outcome. I blurt out half-formed brainstorms. And often regret it. Because if my poor mouth was given time to tell my hand to write down what I really want to say, it would come out differently. More rationally. And kinder I think. I take great care in what I write, because I like to be proud of it. I meticulously comb through my own friendly letters, scholarly essays, short e-mails, scrawled notes, and tender birthday cards to ensure that the words do exaclty what I intended.
Words heard aloud certainly mean just as much. So instead of writing how I live, as I attempt to do here, I think I'd like to live how I write. Thoughtfully, carefully, orderly.

Still passionately.

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She's a piratey soul, full a' vinegar and glitter.

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