sometimes i express myself - weird, huh?

I like writing. I write with pencils and I touch-type my heart out. I write. It’s what I do. It’s the only thing I feel I am even remotely good at. I write. I don’t talk. I do not like talking. I sincerely do not enjoy it. There just isn’t enough time. You sit and you listen and you try to compose your sentences to express your emotions and the words that seem to flow when you’re watching them fall down onto the paper just won’t come, like there’s a frog in your throat that’s swallowing down all the words that are trying to slip past your vocal cords and the only way to evade it is just to use your hands. But then, I doubt I’d be any better at communicating in sign language. It’s not so much the writing opposed to the talking as it is the solitariness opposed to having to deal with other people, the action opposed to the reaction. And it’s the way that words once said are said forever, that the sound-waves travel on into infinity and there is no way to recall them – that there is no such thing as a backspace key for the words that come spewing out of my mouth. If I were to stand up in front of you all and try to express this I would be stuttering and pausing and trying to hide, even if I had it scripted out ahead of time and it was so fixed in my head that I could recite it from muscle memory. But here on my own with my hands on the keys the words are easy, because the only thing that matters is the words. There is no worrying about the tone of my voice and the straightness of my back. The words are all. The words, all the words, and only the words, with my hand on the dictionary and the flights of whimsy that I shall only occasionally allow to spread their wings. And if I can’t find the words to express myself, if I stop and stutter it doesn’t matter because there’s nobody here to hear me and I can go back and try again and again and again until I get it right – except I don’t. I just sit and let my fingers roam and try not to notice how spider-like they appear. And the words spill out because that’s what I do, that’s all I want, to be able to say what I think and what I feel and if that’s nothing, well, that doesn’t really matter. If there’s nothing inside me… at least I can tell you that.

(no subject)

I was slouching on the sofa with the laptop on my thighs, and the cat decided my lap looked like a nice place to sit. So I was covered in warmth.

It was weird, though, because I was just sitting reading fic and then the cat starts kneading its feet on my lower stomach and climbs up and steps on me and turns around and curls up on me. Warm. Cat has gone now, though.