Who I am, who I really am, the person that looks out from behind these eyes expresses himself, not verbally, but through these hands.
My hands hold the pen that confess my soul to paper. I do not posses the talent of communicating that by word of mouth. To know me– you must read my writing– it is the only way.
The ability to write can be seen as more a curse than a blessing. Most people tend to hear what I say, more than what I write. And, I usually tend to keep my true feelings to myself, only in my writing do they appear.
That I am cursed to remain silent is the trouble. The silence is only the sound of my inability to find the words, and if I really press, it becomes the wrong thing entirely. The people that I care about, have no idea, the depth of which I perceive them, because my hands are tied. But in my writing, my thoughts are meditated and orchestrated and seem to fall exactly into place through the tip of my pen. It becomes harmony, a beautiful representation of who I am, but it remains mine, not to be seen by the people that need to see it the most: those whom it concerns.
I wish I could express myself in those awkward situations that call for elegance from my lips. It is what I say in those critical moments that matter most to others. That my hands and lips should be so opposed to each other pains me; I feel that I am coming up short.
All anybody would really need to do is hand me a pen. With a pen, I can feel my thoughts, the way a stroke of a girl’s hair behind her ears says everything without saying anything. My hands long to speak. They want to hold the hand of another and confess everything. “Wait…they don’t love you like I love you…*”
Maybe, this is why I write, I feel the paper and the pen, and it makes me think of the things I adore the most.
~somewhat reworded journal entry from a few days ago
*lyrics from a song named Maps