A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

It’s hilarious to see my mind at work.  It’s rather entertaining.

I have music on (really, really loud) most of the day when I’m alone at home.  It makes the noises shut up. The problem with that is that as soon as I turn it off and get the sensation back in my ears, the noises come back with a vengeance!

I don’t believe I dwell on these noises.  I just keep them bottled and stuffed and pressed way, way , waaaay down deep in the bottomless pit of who I am.

And this is why I write.  Because I don’t want to speak out loud the thoughts that go through my head.  I don’t have the energy to open my mouth and say all the things that rumble inside my skull.  Once I take what’s inside this iddy-biddy little insignificant brain and pour it out on paper, empty it into the great wide open, it makes room for yet another mass of insignificant chatter and the one on paper isn’t as loud anymore.

“Cheap Therapy” my daughter says.  

I’ve dabbled in Therapy.  I’ve sat across the room from someone who furrowed their brow and took notes and asked questions as if they really cared what was coming out of my mouth.  I see the little cartoonish thought bubble above their head and the sound of Charlie Brown’s mother in his tv specials is what I imagined they were thinking.

How is what I tell you in 45 minutes going to make you understand who I am and what I am stuffing and stifling inside of me?

It’s an interminable loop that leads one to the other and can’t be compartmentalized into little chunks of life that fit into 45 minutes of the sound of my voice bouncing around the walls punctuated by the hems and haws of fake understanding that a PHD gives more credibility to. 

And after 45 minutes of an uncorked soul, there is still more that needs to follow that same stream and now it is supposed to be reigned in and calmed and compressed and shoved back inside and tightens it’s grip and threatens to choke my being because it’s already seen the glimpse of light. 

So, what?  I’m expected to just stop spewing feelings and wait for the next time I’m sitting across from a face that feigns concern and understanding of issues they’re heard countless times and because they’re heard some things countless times I’m going to be lumped into the same pot of boiling, scalding, interminable madness?

I see things differently than their license to practice listening and appropriate body language allows them to pretend they understand.

So I write.  

 Because I can drown out the noises with the clicking of my keyboard, or I can abandon them with the blink of the cursor, or I can organize them and make them look pretty. 

And I don’t have to shut up in 45 minutes.