I can write. I know I can. Sometimes its the easiest thing in the world, and sometimes the blank white screen is most intimidating. But when the words come, I know they are the right ones.

I trust the words that flow out, simply because there’s a reason why one was formed and another drifted off to be used later. I rarely edit what I write (not a good thing all the time) because then it isn’t me anymore, it isn’t me sitting in the same space as those words. We need to be on the same page literally, the words need to have the same importance as me creating them. Otherwise I kill their tiny little squiggly lives, like mosquitoes being squished.

I write for me, and I watch her write for adulation. Who gets it, then? He, who is forming all those ideas in her head? What is the difference between them. I can’t see it. Hypocrite I want to shout, but she wont hear me. Won’t listen. It’s only the sound of one voice that will spur her on.

So, my words and I, we will sit and wait.

And no, I do not have MPD.

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