A place amidst the noise


I am reminded of how I used to write when the click pen I have chosen has trouble flowing and after two short sentences I go looking for the backlit keyboard like Pavlov’s dog salivating over the bell signaling auto-correct of the brain. 
You see, I straddle the timeframe between pen and paper (curiously, “pop em” from google algorithms, but not my brain) and backspace keyboard. I am both the white out generation (eschewing the subpar Tandy corporation’s first “word  processer” for an electric brother typewriter – the irony still holds). 


And so I think (or the voice refuting translation bouncing from coast to coast in the linguistic vortex of my cranium and cortex) I just want to write. 




***


[A little backstory]

I began writing at an early age, possibly 11 or 12, writing in a serious way. 

To me, that meant cathartic if obtuse expression of deep pain and confusing, conflicted emotions for what was happening to me and who I was told I was.
Writing is a way through that-being adopted, having dissociative disorder, reliving trauma and actual repeated abise, continuing thru a treasure trove of toxic workplace Who’sWho of Assholes into a wasteland of small-minded, back handed hacks across the industry – of highly paid hacks.

Dark tower 

Cho Ch ok Kay oh

Sick of the nomadic privilege

The hours turning into days 

of wasted time 

Who wants their legacy to be invisibility? What then was the point of suffering then?

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