I am not a writer. I am a victim.

I want to always be an expression of me. (The innermost me.)
I want my words to always be mine.
"Words are only words within a sentence.” That’s Virginia Woolf…
But this, this is my pen.

……….

As I child I wanted to be an astronaut.
No one- ever- told me: “I think space doesn’t go well with you.”
Perhaps because intuitively they know… they know that a part of us is galaxy, explosion, energy; a part of you, of me, of this pen, of the thought hitting the page like a wave on a rock… is also a star.
And a part of me is a billion years old- but another one is much older.

………

My pen woke up all aggressive.
It wants to write. Injured wrist and all.
Hand write.

………..

Something about constellations and words within a sentence and Virginia Woolf and a wave and… oh God… the synapse right there…
Ramon y Cajal would be delighted…. And so would be Freud…

………

I don’t care.
I don’t care, you see?
Today I don’t care.
Maybe tomorrow… my brain does its thing once more, but today, my God, today the wrist, the hand, the neuron firing… they’re all connected to something else- something not my own – yes also- but not exclusively.
Something shared…
There goes a whale in my imagination.
A toy.
A marching band.

This is crazy.
That’s what happens when it is in control.
I lose it.
I become an instrument of something.
For something.
I channel words, worlds, sentences, dots – that appear to be periods, commas, whales and marching bands.

A series of thoughts revolve above my head – not in it, no… outside of me.
I don’t choose them; they drop and continue moving, spiraling down all the way to the tip of the pen.
(yes, this was written in paper before

I am not a writer.
I am a victim.

I want to move freely.
Go to the toilet, have breakfast.
I can’t.
I am chained to a piece of paper.

This is ridiculous…

Help!

There goes the whale, there goes my childhood… astronaut missions in the living room, a play staged by my teddy bears (I directed), there goes something I don’t recognize…
Someone else’s childhood?

That thought is new…
Let me write it…
Down.

(Now it’s mine)

Period.