Haymarket, Blackstone Park, North End Park (Jun. 2017)

Deaf ears.

Every time my fingers dance along my keyboard (laptop and/or phone), I sink into my chair and slowly become intoxicated with myself. Stumbling to continue the next sentence, I either toss my head back, taking a deep breath or place my forehead on the table and compose myself. If I stop now, this will never get down. After a few seconds, my ears concentrate on the tap, tap, taps.

I’m exhausted with the several triathlons that my thoughts go through when I get into a fit: swimming in a pool of mixed emotions, cycling over and over again on old topics, and racing to get them down before they leave me again. These words are immediate. They are raw. They are constantly screaming in the back of my head, ricocheting inside my skull until the bone cracks and Pandora’s box drowns me with every suppressed emotion that hit me that day, week, month, year, etc. I am told to speak about my emotions, but when this Medium (shitty pun) is ignored, I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.

I stopped telling you about my writing.