Scribble and Scrawl

I’ve started a hundred posts in the past few weeks, but have only finished a few.
I’ve been writing a lot, but it’s been on scraps of paper and with crayons and in my trusty leather-bound journal.

I am open and honest here.  But it would be foolish of me to not be a little guarded.
I tell you only what I want you to know, that is true.
(But I also whisper things here that I would never tell you face-to-face.)
That is the beauty and the sorrow of the internet.
We can speak and be heard, but we filter.filter.filter…sometimes until there’s nothing left but empty words.

I don’t (I can’t) show you my unfiltered words.
The ones that are dark and raw.
The ones that only make sense to me.
The ones…the ones that have more meaning than they should.

This morning I re-discovered a phrase that I’d written a week or so ago.
(The actual words are irrelevant, really.)
I barely remember scribbling them down.
A brief swoosh of an idea in my mind.
Moments later, washed away by yet another loud noise or “Mommy, will you…”
(I don’t even remember what distracted me.)

I look at my scrawl and stretch my mind.
No matter…I can’t remember the details.
But I know, I know, that they meant something to me then.
Something important enough to stop what I was doing and hastily scribble on an old envelope.

And so I tuck the wrinkled, Coke-splattered envelope away,
Knowing that I’ll one day stumble across it again.
And maybe then I’ll be ready for its meaning.

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