I process with my pen,
its inky laughter and tears spilled in vowels and consonants and grammatical scraps.
Through fingertip to paper, the thoughts pinging off the inside of my cranium find
form and voice; and
if it were not so, the thoughts would escape disjointed and be lost,
part of the myriad muffled conversations in the universe that buzz and buzz—
the white noise of life.
It’s like living under high voltage power lines. So I write
to capture the meaning of things,
to process the jumble of my mind that keeps me thinking,
waking and sleeping,
and try to make sense of it all—well, maybe not all,
but at least me.