Where would it go? Where would all the thought, emotions, observations go? Would they fall by the wayside, forgotten? Would I implode with the bursting pressure of them, like an over-stretched balloon? Would my words die if they lost the immortality of being stained to paper? My writing is pain and passion, love, laughter, family. Would that cease to exist if I could not preserve it? I compare it to a soul. The soul is eternal. My words, my thoughts are eternal. To not write them down is not to say they never were. The air would thicken with the pregnant tendrils of my forbidden words. Unable to be contained in paper, my thoughts would simply drift away, eluding me; they would not die. But like the loss of a soul, it would be an agony to endure the separation.
(written 9/5/08)
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