Sometimes I sit here and I wonder whose blog this is.
Is it my emotions’?
My thoughts’?
My fingers’?
Inevitably, eventually, I talk about emotions on this blog. My upswings and downswings. My Jeckyll and my Hyde. The darkness and the light.
I punch words out about the things that infurate me.
I tickle lines into existence about the things that make me laugh.
But I still don’t know who owns this blog. This corner of web space.
.
Without the air I breathe I couldn’t write, so does the air own it?
Without money I couldn’t rent out a domain and get hosting, so does the economy own it?
Without crap in my life I doubt I would write, so do the people that destroy me own it?
.
I only ask because I don’t own this blog. When I write I don’t sit and think and type. I am taken hostage by a force. It moves through my fingers. My mind becomes vacant as the words spill across the screen. The threads weave together and I don’t see why. I don’t notice them. They just do.
.
The pauses that litter the silent spaces between sentences become vagrants that watch as another adds to their ranks. My little finger itches to molest the backspace.
.
I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
.
Perhaps one day I’ll meet my other personality. My writer. The unconsciousness that moves through my arms, into my fingers, and dances the dance it dances.
.
But not today.
