When I Write I Become

When I write I become honest. More honest than in my own head at least. I find clarity. My gloppy oatmeal thoughts crystalize on the page. “Oh, that’s what I think!” I realize.

When I write I become a purveyor of beautiful moments stuck smack in the middle of the daily trudge, like tiny greenstones lodged in a larger chunk of grey basalt.

My mind goes deeper and wider, more of a bird’s eye view.

But also, when I write I often become strident, ranting and complaining in my journal page after tiring page. Like mucking out the chicken coop. It stinks, the dust chokes you, it’s monotonous, but also oddly satisfying and has to be done. Sometimes you just have to shovel shit.

When I write I find my voice— unearthed out from under the dry nurse documentation voice; the people-pleasing, caretaking voice; the “PLEASE just wash your dishes” mother/wife voice.

When I write I become me. I am for me. For what needs and wants to be said. Me, standing alone on the windswept page with myself and what I really think.

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