My Home.
I have many voices. Writing is one of them. I would like to say that I write solely to clear the mind, that there are sounds within me no human voice can mimic; only the quiet print of prose. But writing also allows me to enjoy the comforts of my thoughts. I live in it, explore the space, discover new rooms everyday, redecorate and admire my work. There is no dust, no broken windows, or missing plates. It is a beautiful home this mind of mine…when I write.
But the moment I stop is when my home starts to fall apart.
It makes sense when it’s on the page. Though we are strangers you trust me to guide you; through the woods and into the clearing our path can be a long one, taking us further into the wilds of my imagination. It is a sight to behold…when I write.
But no amount of locks can keep the other voices from breaking in. They do not articulate as well as I can. They cannot connect ideas nor arrive to their conclusion with the same grace. They are incapable of self-editing. Roommates who, despite their sincere efforts, cannot help but knock over the lamp. Kick up the rug. Misplace the silverware. There is nothing to stop anyone from coming in once the door has been broken…until I write.
When I write I am alone. I take the time to clean up. I fix the door again so you might judge my home as an artist would a painting; whether you agree with my aesthetic or not, I am not embarrassed by it. I am proud. Confident.
But I cannot keep the other voices out for long. They know not to disturb me when I am busy, to allow me the time to straighten up. After the guests have disappeared and I have inspected every inch of my home, have dotted every “i” and crossed every “t,” eventually all there is left to do is sit and wait, the bookend to these words shrunken down to a fine point…
Until I write again.
