I don't write for any reason other than survival.
Otherwise, I would suffocate under the weight of my own thoughts.
The words gather up inside of me like a boiling teapot, or a nest of hornets, until I can find somewhere to release them. Digital is ok, but nothing beats pen on paper. Napkins. Skin. Anywhere is fine, I just need to tattoo these words out of me and onto the Earth.
It's futile though. Inside is an ocean, and what I do is no faster than using a shot glass to empty it. On the hardest days, it's like using a thimble.
It's exhausting because I am writing and translating in one. What you see is a rough approximation of what fills me. I used to sanitize and polish before, but now I am unapologetic.
I want to have wilder and wilder thoughts. It's why I let my mind loose like a mustang. My job only gets harder and harder. Chasing and chasing, lasso in hand.