Putting pen to paper not for rage but for elucidation divides me. I have not written so freely in a space since I started this job (though since starting this job I have never felt more alone or misunderstood or "un" myself). The keys feel foreign beneath my fingers, sentences and statements as alliterative as they are meaningless.
I am Confused by what these words mean and by the freedom I have to type them here without censorship, without the fear of being told I'm too much myself and not enough the person I aspire to be.
I miss writing creatively, differently. I forget I had a skill for this, challenge if I ever had one at all.
This is the medium with which I used to communicate with her, my hidden self, and her, my therapist, the revealer of my hidden self. The keys feel slack and unfamiliar beneath each tap and errant keystroke. I've lose control of my language but also my medium.
I have no words. This situation is no dissimilar from my current predicament, except as my escape position, it revolts me. So I pretend I am writing for her.