I often write with abandon. I let my fingers type all on their own, and the result is seemingly eclectic, expressing things that have no conscious connection. And afterward, I read what I’ve written and look for a meaning or message. As sure as my fingers take over on a piano and play something that I’ve forgotten, allowing my conscious mind to have zero control so that I can play, I often put the control in the hands of my fingers and in the fingers of my hands, those same hands that connect to my subconscious and put into the world that which I can’t consciously express. I initially have a feeling that sparks a thought or memory, and instead of relaying outright the feeling that pushed me to write, those thoughts and memories end up on the page, leaving the reader to find meaning by making connections between what appears to be disconnected ideas and anecdotes. I become the reader when I seek meaning in my own writing, much like how I hear myself play piano and feel the resonance of a player’s emotion with that of a listener’s. What comes out is both literal and allegorical. What comes out are the random contents of my subconscious mind that my subconscious pieced together to express the idea or emotion. Sometimes I, as the reader, can’t make out the connections. I simply trust that connections exist.

But there are times when I consciously craft a piece using the words that my thoughts or emotions have provided. I take the words handed to me and mold something from them. The response I expect is not necessarily one that requires expression, though an expressed response is encouraged. It’s my need for validation that hopes the response is expressed, if only for me to learn the depth of what I’ve created (or whether depth exists). I hope for multiple interpretations, though sometimes I need my emotions to clearly present themselves. 

And sometimes I write stuff for the sake of telling a story.

And sometimes I can’t tell the difference.

But whether literal or figurative, the foundation of my writing is emotional. And being such, what is intended to be literal may not be so at all.

The bottom line is that I am a mystery, even to myself. But what you and I can both be certain of is that the words come from something within.


Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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