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 voice and form;
and if it were not so, my untidy words would hemorrhage disjointed and be
just a part of the myriad muffled chatters in the world that buzz and 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 my mind jumble and try
to make sense of it all.