Writing

I want to capture the world. To paint with language. To communicate my perspective. I come to understand everything, even what’s inside me, by organizing it into words. Thoughts blur together in my mind, the embodiment of chaos, racing. Only when they are forced into some sort of order on paper, real, in front of me, can I see them. In the process, not only do I understand what I think, but I can communicate it to others. The haze in my mind is a mess of speculation and concept and observation. Without organization, a million thoughts per second are born and die.

That one movie, but he’s looking at me, ouch, red, not fun, does he care, I have to move, crossing fibers, striped reflecting irises, stupid, hairs growing from a mole, does he care, wedge of pupils, he’s not listening, green skirt, frosty swings, I haven’t been listening, smooth nose, graceful, pretty, Beatles tune...

“But, Rick, um. . . I don’t know. You just.. its important to talk, you know? I wish sometimes that things were more natural, that we could just tell each other everything, even the minor, trivial things. I want to know you, to be a part of you. I’m not telepathic, you know,”--

Oh, god, stupid, right, mean, another fight, bad, stupid...

The eyes are shining, floating cushioned in the watery sockets. I study the whites now patterned intricately with spidery red veins. Even the white appears pale pink, lids bursting outward with the brimming surface of repressed tears. It twists deep in my chest, between my ribs, the blade thrusting, gliding, so deep. His eyelids droop at the edges, furrowed in confused hurt. He is questioning me with those eyes, asking me why. Why? Why did I say that? Those incredibly long slender fingers shield his now fiery face, bulbous knuckles together in protective modesty, but the act one of embarrassed, overwhelming emotion. His muffled voice protrudes from the wet shelter of his hands, cheeks now shining through his fingers. The voice is tiny, quivering. Both pleading and accusing.

Not again, sad, quivering lip, again, am I wrong, textured wall, buzzing light, prying eyes, I don’t know, wrong, deep, stupid, folded banner, faded writing, distracted, I could be alone, is he leaving me, dripping nose, defeated, I could make it, don’t want to, painted ceiling, didn’t work, quiet, not my fault, stupid, let him talk, angry, silent, not right, okay, wasted day...

“Rick?…,” he sits unmoving, as though he hasn’t heard. Head down, looking at his lap, he’s probably elsewhere, or mad at me. “Rick, I don’t want to sound mean. Its just, sometimes. . .. I feel... I don’t know. I love you. I know you care, Rick. I don’t want to hurt you,” the nostrils flare out for a moment, a few tears trickling, coursing moistly down wet trails over his cheeks. Again that thick, cold blade twists in my chest, an electric pang of concern. I want to both close my eyes, retreat to a safer place, and to have him like I always do, so incredibly, amazingly close. “I’m so sorry. I’m just saying what I think, you know? As it comes to me. I want you to know what’s in my head, what I’m thinking. I’m not trying to hurt you, even if I do,” the eyes face mine. The pupils perfect circles, ringed by the perfectly round irises. His eyes are so red, that can’t be good. Still drooped in questioning hurt. He peers into me, just his eyes, just shiny wet black circles, facing my eyes, looking.

Okay, what is he thinking, intent, difficult, what, cluttered floor, have to do something, does he know, sad, stupid, white sky, cold, waste, sorry, he’s kind, angry...

“Can I hug you?” the question is timid, careful, saying that I’m sorry and understand if he doesn’t want to be touched right now. His eyes squeeze shut in wrinkIed folds, and his arms are around me, head tucked between my head and shoulder, nestled into my neck. I rub my cheek against his bristly soft hair. He is against me, both soft and solid. Pulling away, the eyes face me again, asking nothing now but tired. I run my fingers over the damp curve of his cheek, feeling the stubble, smoothing over his wrinkled wet eyes. They open again, and I feel his hand warm and smooth over mine.

Words allow me to communicate, connect. Through relationships I learn more about myself, as relationships require expression. The static in my mind must be forced into order if another person is to understand it, much less myself. Life is about growing and understanding, and a part of this involves human connection. Humans are naturally social animals. Alone, I have little reason to organize the mess within, and so would ultimately go nowhere. The chaos would take over and settle in, and it would be an indecipherable mess of random thought, a million per second being born and then dying.