There is something very intimate about a pen sliding gently or roughly over paper. It's as if the chain of thought coursing through my mind and my body is irreversibly connected; they are one together in the crime of writing the thoughts provoking my pulsing soul. It's unnerving but intimate just the same. It feels as though I am somehow unraveling a string from within my body that if tugged only a little will pull apart the stitches of my heart. It feels as though my paper is wind drifting beneath and through the wings of my daring instrument and it is both exhilarating and dangerous, the things it can teach me all at once. I scrawl across my paper as if it will take me all the places I only dream to go. And I scrawl across it to see behind the walls of my heart and to skate across the logic of my brain. I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl.
My pen does not merely trace across fiber--it dances with my demons in the fashion of a lover.
How it curses all the angels of my mind and scintillates the night sky within my soul, like stars.
Little stars.
How I love it so.
And so,
I scrawl.
-k.p.b.
June 23, 2015
Tuesday
11:23
"Written against the ticking of the clock.
(Or perhaps my heart?)."
