Sometimes, I stop in the middle of the day, on an old backroad, and scribble fragmented phrases on napkins I keep, just in case.
I bare my soul to a inanimate object in silent hope that I can somehow find myself in the words of my heart-speak.
At dawn, I exhale my dreams into a page so that I can not forget or deny my subconscious. Because the heart has a mind of its own, and I dare not forget that it speaks.
To whom? I do not know. To myself, to undercover writers, to shame-filled sinners, to dreamers, and society’s shunned lovers? Perhaps, because, I am all of these.
Therefore, I will pour out from this overflowing vessel, so that it may be filled again and again to overflowing.