I write to scream into the void.
Except that void is zeros and ones
And data packets
Sent under oceans
From shore to shore
Across the whole world
And maybe someone reads it
Maybe they don’t
It doesn’t really matter
Would it make any difference if it was hidden in a journal, collecting dust?
Or splayed against the bright blue sky, for all to see?
Or buried in a time capsule, deep beneath the roots of an old oak tree?
To be discovered in another age?
A gentler one?
Where the pain has been muted and wounds have scarred over?
In the end, it is still for me.
It is still to process.
It is still to find some…..something.
Something I have yet to find.
And it doesn’t really matter if it is naked to the world, or hid away from prying eyes.
Because it IS mine.
And it took many years of life to realize that I may live it as I choose.
And I needed to read some of these things before.
And maybe I need to read them again.
So I leave them here.
Laughs and Lobotomies 