Maybe you would like me better if our conversations were you speaking words and me sliding my spiral-bound notebook across the void in lieu of one of my butchered, stumbly, cut-up, scatterbrained responses. I wouldn't say a word, except this, these. These little symbols and rules and the structure of the English language I learned in grade school, where I can talk and, I swear, I never stutter when I write it down.
I sound better on paper.
I know how to speak with pencils and pens and typewriters and those word magnets on refrigerator doors and you can never find the word that you were looking for, but I can. I find the words that I was looking for everywhere, except for inside of my own mouth. I speak a foreign language out loud. And still, I talk too much. I write too much, and I speak too much, and I think too much, but that's just another way of me saying that I talk too much. I have too many words inside of me. They gush out gruesomely, like blood out of battle wounds, like vomit, like a torrential downpour and I drown myself a little bit. Words come of me when I try to keep them in and when I don't try to keep them in it's like I'm yelling even when I whisper.
I can't keep myself quiet, even on paper. Even right now, typing this blog post, I'm trying to shut myself up but I feel like there's one more thing (and then one more thing after that) that I need to tell you, but really I'm just talking myself in circles, saying the same thing: I talk too much I talk too much I talk too much. I don't think I'd stop talking if I car hit me.
"The rain is not coming here. Not today. For today the gods welcome one of their own back home."