free write therapy

There's something essental that's missing. It feels like drinking pulpless orange juice - it's fine, in fact sometimes prefered, but you know that's not the way the juice is supposed to be. It spills down my throat, and seems to pass directly through my organs, making no effort whatsoever to spread through my body. I might as well not have lifted the cup at all. What is it. Why do i talk, ceaselessly, with no purpose or content. Where's the pulp? I'm a reflection of my surroundings, as are all living things, and subsequently they are of me. Endless and cyclical. I don't want to spiral out of control. This is the life-sized Cuisinart that renders all pulp virtually unrecognizable, although it was there to begin with.

No thoughts, just words, let flow and go. Don't think, about. punctuation, spelling, capitals, syntax. It hurts to backspace, i sense it through my eyelids, pounding in my eardrums and pulling my arms apart. My eyes are closed now, feeling only the sense of keys on fngers. I turn, and the words turn with me, and we blend together untill they pour into every orifice that i have. Open your mouth and let out an inaudible yawn. It peaks out, keeping one foot inside, holding onto my tongue. another foot - on my lips and legs shaking. It starts to run, and i to scream. The yawn to scream is a beautiful thing, more natural than the last leaf of fall. and i fall, and scream, and no one can hear. the wind is pounding. on glass. bits and pieces seep through but dissipate as they drive towards me. To feel that wind: the kind that shakes buildings, uproots great oaks, tears asphault.

There it is. Intuition. I block it out, like i talk myself out of a cold winters day. Layer upon layer i deny my need for it's presence in my life, that thing that you know with nothing but the strongest connection to everything around you. It used to drag me. Now i drag it. Chained below my ankle, i carry the feeling around. I had people in my life; strong, independent, beautiful, intuitive people, who reminded me of the importance of magic. And it pulsed through them, and me, and nothing else felt more real. And we'd scream, when screaming allowed, and we'd scream, when we were silenced, and we'd run when time seemed endless, and we'd run when it came too close. I saw in in their eyes, when they slept and when they cried, and their shreiks were both of joy and fear, swift in their escape and their celebration. It's missing, it's vital, the pulp of my morningnoonandnight. It's nearly inaccessible without you here, but i feel it every time i'm home, every time. It's the most beautiful, courageous, innovative work of art - the way you teach others to embody emotions. Backspace.