I've decided to post every day again for a while.
I just don't have the discipline to write stuff if I don't have some deadline looming.
It's too easy to procrastinate.
I'm good at easy things like procrastination, also, napping. Napping is easy. I'm good at napping.
I've been reading some haiku. Jack Kerouac wrote some fucking awesome haiku.
They sort of blow my head open. In a good way. Like a gust of wind blowing a curtain.
Airing out the brain.
Blowing the brain curtains around.
I imagine my brain curtains are lace. I like lace curtains.
I like the way they blow around in the spring or fall when the windows are open on a blue day.
Spring blue and Autumn blue are both blue but they're not the same.
I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.
I'm thinking of authenticity and voice.
Have you thought about authenticity and voice?
Your voice, is it really your own?
Do you realize that your authentic voice was present before you could speak?
Isn't that funny?
By the time you had words, had you lost your authentic voice?
So your voice was never your own?
That's what I'm finding.
So during this silence, this easy uneasy silence
I've quietly been looking for
my voice, my own,
the voice I spoke with
when I had no words,
before I could actually speak
because I think
I was silenced
before I could even utter a word