It seems to me that the Broca’s area of my brain is damaged,
if not underdeveloped.
Words coming out of my mouth are jumbled, crude arrangements
of the thoughts that reared them. I want to be articulate so damn bad, but the sentences escaping my tounge lack any trace of structure and it’s every word for itself. Instead
of forming a cohesive whole, the nouns and verbs fight each other in epic
battles to destroy any traces of meaning. It really is madness. Each time I try
to verbalize what’s running through my mind, I unleash a
terrifying flood of undecipherable, yet relatively well-annunciated mumblings.
I just picture a little kid barely tall enough to ride a Disneyland roller
coaster standing in front of a giant claw machine, picking the words I’m about
to gift to the world, hooking little blocks of lazy transitions and unclear
subjects.
Well, I guess I would be that little kid then… which might
just sprinkle a bit of tragedy on this bit. I think if word bubbles appeared
every time I talked, “their” and “their” would somehow be used
interchangeably.
This might be why I’ve always preferred writing. On a blank
piece of lined paper, I can cross out and restructure. I have the luxury of
staring at a blinking cursor on my screen as I take my sweet time in constructing
anything resembling to something that I feel or wish to convey (The two things
are not one of the same at times.) I love the freedom and the ability to erase.
Nothing is of permanence, unchanged indefinitely. I am at my own pace and if I
remember my grade school education correctly, they taught me that slow and
steady wins the race. If need be, I am welcomed to take a sip of my red wine
blend straight from the bottle. No one is waiting for my thoughts because no
one knows that I have anything to say. Honestly, sometimes I really don’t have
anything to say.
Asdfjkl;.
And I’m back.
