I feel like I have a story to tell. But maybe it's not the erotic anthology I think it should be. Or even the Great American Novel that everyone assumes it would be. Maybe it's not even to be told in words. I don't know entirely...not yet anyway.
The chatter in my head seems to want me to hear something. The louder it gets, the harder it is to keep inside, to keep quiet. It is with me always, no matter what I try to do to escape it. Even when I am making art, I cannot detach enough to avoid the incessant noise. Not even when I try to drown it out with laborious sweat or nature's soft sounds. The only time it feels quiet, the only time I feel present, is when I'm writing. It's something I don't do nearly enough and therefore rarely find that quiet peace of being fully here & now.
Maybe, just maybe, through writing it down--the chatter, the noise, the conflict, the rage--I can begin to hear myself again. The words. The story. What needs to be told.