I’m writing my journal.

It’s not easy.

I’m SO angry right now that my capacity to type is heavily obstructed.

Normally, my blind typing is absolutely first-class, like the best you can find in the world of blind typing.

I’ve been doing it for decades and used it day in and day out.

Books, blogs, advertising copy, songs, poems.

Typing, typing, typing.

But not now.

My fingers are fat with fury.

Thick, heavy, dense, rude, awkward.

I constantly touch the wrong keys.

I press two keys at the same time.

I remove too many letters when I bang the backspace key with absolute rage.

It’s a fucking mess.

And I can’t help but write:…

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

FUCK.

I don’t journal to express my gratitude, or to get what I want.

My journal acts as a mirror of wisdom, a silent friend, something that helps me sift through the thought storms.

When the dust settles, there’s always stuff that soothes me, clarifies shit, and acts as a way to find relief.

The journal is not supposed to become a book.

I never go back in time and read old shit.

It’s there for me to vent and to vomit.

To dream out loud, bold, fierce, big, merciless.

To reflect.

To not think and just spill.

It’s hardly ever beautiful or polished.

It’s as direct as direct can be.

And often painfully repetitive.

Fingers translate the fleeting, messy, temporary importance of the moment.

It’s a good place to lose my mind.

And now, right now, it’s a testament to my restlessness and agitation, like running around a playground full of torture contraptions.

I’m totally getting in my own way.

Tripping over my fingers.

Bashing the keyboard.

A clumsy, aggressive, primal dance.

It’s not easy.

And it’s not pretty.

But I must say it’s pretty fascinating.

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(Photo by @shots_of_aspartame, for Unsplash)