Blondes should never be seen writing in a bar. It tarnishes our image; blows the lid off the fantasy. Ah well. I never was one to follow the social expectations of this place. Eat your heart out Freud.
I find that when I try to write, it becomes almost impossible. But when I'm thinking about absolutely nothing, the pen flies across the page. I've lost pens this way... Writing and writing until they run out of ink; bled dry by the opened floodgates of my mind... my fast flying far flung thoughts. They come to me when I least expect them and I swear they force themselves onto the page.
I have to laugh. Half the time I make no sense and the other half... well, my friends would say I missed my calling. Written word and the knack for counseling have earned me the illustrious nick-names "great listener", "good friend" and even, on rare occasions, "poet". I beg to differ. I'm a bullshit artist; half in love with the sound of my own voice, half prone to vicious rambling and all in need of praise. Who knows? I've never been able to sit back and I hate standing out. The consummate behind-the-camera girl who can't stop jumping into the scene anyway.
Where does that lead me? With my foot in my mouth mostly. I know I'm smart, but my brain is always ahead or behind my mouth. They're never in sync. And if my pen stops once I put it to paper, I'm screwed.
Intellect was safety. But intellect is also dangerous. "Be smart, but not too smart." I've heard it all my life. "You don't want to intimidate, do you?"
Sometimes I do. I really do. But I buckle... because for all the brain power, I'm lost against brute force. And when I hear it in a voice, it stumps me. It's the shut-down, remnants of a darker time, when silence equalled safety.
No comments:
Post a Comment