Black on white

I write. Words on paper. Black on white. A pen, a typewriter, a computer. The things I use to express myself, to reveal the anguish, the memories, and the fears. Intangible, abstract often obscure phrases filled with metaphor and symbolism. Page after page of black on white, the words is as two dimensional as the paper they are scrawled across. No cry for help, no scream of anger, no sound is heard but the soft whisper of paper floating down to earth. I have no voice to read the words aloud, it was taken from me, many years before. No utterances of outrage, no pleas for mercy. Unable to protest the violations, I write. Feelings, emotions, held so tightly inside that I cannot breathe. The tears in my eyes go unshed for fear they will be seen. Thoughts, memories, startling flashes of hands and angry faces, all battling for attention in my mind. Random, unwanted, a dance of pain set the discordant music, the screeching sounds of a million wounds wailing in the wind. Unable to speak, I write. Unable to stop the sorrow, I write.
Existing as a dichotomy. One has the blindness of youth, a faith in love that time has not tarnished, a devotee of fairy tales and happy endings. A mind still clear and quick, hungry to be filled with wisdom and able to close the doors on memories, hiding them away like broken toys no longer need. A heat that beats strong, straining to break the boundaries that age has imposed, aching to be touched. Courageous. An explorer always looking for a new land, a new adventure, unafraid. The other has the blindness of experience, self-imposed, defensive, cynical of life and love. A mind cluttered with faded photos, broken records, desperately searching for the broken toys, finding only pieces that cut and burn, behind doors that burst open without warning, then slam shut just as quickly. A heart that beats timidly, rapidly, trying to turn in upon itself, to build walls stone, in constant fear of shattering. Ashamed, reluctant to venture beyond the confines of the familiar darkness, unwilling to open the window to let in the light. Reacting to the past, living in the present, I write. Messages like silent voices, screaming to the farthest reaches of my brain.. Messages that repeat, over and over, like a broken record that no one else hears. Messages, fragments of thoughts, pieces of memories, floating like shards of a mirror in space. Sharp edged pieces of information, cutting like razors into my emotional fabric. I can’t avoid them, they are everywhere, in everything, but to touch them is to feel the pain, and the loss of myself.