Notes from the Neighborhood – So, Why Write?

So why write?
What does this do?
What do these journals do?
Does this help?

Maybe . . .

I used to shake my leg when I was a kid.
Have you ever sat next to anyone who does this?
If so, then I’m sure you might find the leg-bouncing a little annoying.
Well, that was me.
No one liked sitting next to me. I used to shake my leg at the table.
I suppose it’s energy. It was nerves or maybe a series of thoughts that were uncomfortable, to say the least, and my anxiety was too much.

I had to learn how to stop this. But for the record, I never asked to have anxiety.
I never asked to have hard feelings or to be uncomfortable.
No, not at all.

Safe to say –
I want what we all want.
I want to be free too.
I want to be happy the same as anyone else does.
I want to walk without worry and to live without the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I want to dance to the music for a while or sing and not care if anyone likes the sound of my voice.
I want the dream, which is changing and ongoing, which is fine too, as long as I can reach for it. 

I want simple things like a good sunrise with some music. I want to wake up without the wonder of what’s coming next. I mean this as if the word “next” is used to imply an impending thing, or as if people are against or angry with me; or as if I am about to fight a case and defend my life against a judge and jury who are enemies to begin with.

So, I write.
I’ve been writing for a long time now. And yes, this has its benefits.
This opened my eyes when I needed to see things. At the same time, my writing has allowed me to close my eyes when I needed to. 

I used to use a pen and a notebook. I used to scribble down poetry.
Only, I’d never share it or tell anyone. I suppose I thought this would make me too vulnerable.
Or worse, I was more afraid that what I wrote was poorly done or that I was only raw at best and untalented.
I don’t scribble down notes anymore. Times have changed and the world has moved into a new era.
Technology is the key which, in my case, I swear, this leaves me at a disadvantage.
I am not tech-savvy by any means.
But I’m working on it.

Instead of scribbling down words in notebooks, I type now.
I keep my pages here, between us.
I still don’t read to anyone – but then again, you already know that
(and why).
I like typing though.
I like the sound the keys make when I poke them. I like the feeling of the keys when they crush beneath my fingertips. When the mood hits, like now, or when life is intense; it’s more accurate to say that I use my fingers to stab the keys for effect; as if to almost kill the beast that bothers me most.

I view this as a way to extinguish the dilemmas in my head, at least for a little while.
I see this as an unbreakable connection that no one can take away from me.
I’m safe here.
The only people who are welcome are us – or namely, specifically you because after all – you are the reason I’m here.
You are the reason I’ve kept this up when I wanted to quit so many times before. 
You wouldn’t let me . . .

My writing and this so-called room in my head are used as a method to separate me from the tension which at times – I swear the build up is incredible.
The pressure can be unforgivable and, at minimum, the ideas in my head can be unstoppable.

I don’t want to twitch or bounce my leg uncontrollably anymore.
Instead, I have found this to act as my transfer of energy.
I write . .  .
My reason for this is to find something to use as my shield or to alleviate the discomfort of damaged thinking. 

This leads me to where I am now.
For the record, I don’t mind where I am.
I know this has to be.
So to make this count, I want to be raw – even if this means that I’m untalented.

I know that there’s a reason behind this. Or, should I agree and say, “there’s a reason for everything,” which is what people always tell me.
Of course there’s a reason for everything.
Even if the reason is simple or overlooked, I know there’s a reason for this.

So?
Today is day two in my new home.
I have furniture now, which I’m sure I’ve told you about. I have a television now, which I might not have told you about, but it’s nice.
I have a bed, which is also nice. But either way, I’m still brand new to this scene. I have a list of unknown conflicts that are yet to begin.
Rather than let myself be carried away with my thoughts or to succumb to the ideas that are less than helpful, I choose to write.
I have to.
I need something to separate me from my thinking.
That’s why I have this journal.

I can come here and sit and let myself go.
At least here, no one can point or accuse or say a mean thing.
This is my defense.
I come here to cut the strings that tie me up or hold me back.
I have no other weapon in my arsenal. I only have my words as they appear on a screen.
I have nothing other than my voice, these words and this brief moment of unspoken communication between us which speaks volumes, if you ask me.

This is my knife –
These words are sharp and they cut like a scalpel to which I can slice through the membrane that keeps me from breathing.
I can slice my way through and feel the breeze move across my face.
I come here because otherwise, I’m trapped; as in claustrophobic in a wide-open world, which is a contradiction of course.
But I’m sure I’m not alone nor am I the only person who understands this.

However, without anything else to protect me from the world at large, I write because this is the only way I can reach you.
This is the only way I know how to free myself – even if I’m only free for a few minutes or if I’m only free with you – I’ll take it.
I’ll take what I can get.
I have to.

I need to because nothing else makes sense to me . . .
By the way, this is not a desperate plea.
No, I think this is bravery at its finest; to be honest or to call out the demons in my head and challenge them, right here, right now, on the front lawn, and come what may; come blood, come pain, come broken bone, I’m here to fight back, defend my heart and my life with all I have until death due us part. 

I have been searching for a way to reach that next level as a writer.
I want to be a better person too.
I have been looking back at myself and the person I’ve been throughout the decades.
I am still that young searcher; however, I admit to my unresolved tensions.
I admit to my post traumatic episodes which cause me to move in ways that are unhelpful to say the least.
There are tines to walk in and times to walk away.
But I don’t want to walk away.
Not now. Not ever.
No – Besides, I’m here for my freedom.

I am literally a few paragraphs deep and I could write to you forever. (I swear, I could.)
I could write until the pages turn into a helpful resolution or, in other words, I could write my way into “the next best thing” which is my hope.
Somewhere, right now, there’s a man who is sitting in a room with two candles lit on the table in a small living room.
Aside from the white light of a small computer screen; the room is otherwise dark and with all of his heart, he’s writing.
He’s screaming his words into a soft episode on a page to rid himself of fear or the worry that lonesomeness is on its way.
This is his way of reaching for the one thing he wants the most: His love.
His only weapons are the words that appear in front of him, as if each letter comes with its own valuable character.
Each character is set in place to build a bridge with words, and each word is a brick with its own meaning, and then finally – his aim is to create a sentence that reaches across and hopefully, this penetrates the impenetrable or softens the hard exterior of the world he’s looking to break through.

Write on, I say.
Write on Poet because no one can stop you. 

This is why I write –