Learning to Breathe

The thrill of existing as words on paper, of being able to breathe by exhaling words, thrills me. It rivets me. It owns me. I am addicted to the thrill, the uncontrollable high of writing and rewriting myself. If you seek answers, look no farther than a blank page; it will show you all you really need to know. More than answers, it will give you a home, a purpose. My voice, unlike most of those around me, isn’t a noise, isn’t some pitch or tone I can recognize in a crowd; it is a completely unique pattern of letters on paper that I can’t explain without changing it. I read the world around me like a book, and I write what I see. Every breath I take is a new word leaving a fantastic new tang on my lips, and the only way to express it is by documenting it on paper with the voice I can’t hear. When the only way to exist is by the stream of words inside of me, every word becomes a piece of me, and I'm confronted with the fact that through my barely legible scribbles, I am learning to breathe.