Ghostwriting

Alot of times I find pieces in my “junk drawer.”

Well-written, emotionally charged documents

which embody everything that writing is supposed to be.

Everything that I love about it.

But I don’t remember writing them.

See,

When I have a lot of those...

you know…

feelings...

too many for me too handle,

and too many to bottle up,

I sit down and I write.

I bleed, just as Ernest Hemingway said writers should.

And once I’ve finished,

once the pages have leached the vile, curdled emotions from my heart

(for now)

I forget it even happened.

When I fall into that space,

of complete abandon,

of full-scale therapeutic word purging,

I am not myself.

Not the self who remembers the past or dwells in it.

I am my purest self.

So pure I cannot even remember that I wrote, let alone what I wrote.

And that is raw, pure, beauty.

That, my friends,

is writing.