Some words are made for saying. Others wait to be written.

I don’t know when I stopped, or indeed, why. As I sit to write to you now, I know the feeling all too well. Unclothed, unencumbered, unresistant, I am free. I am at ease. I am with nothing to lose. I sit here and recognise me at my most honest. I see that that writing to me, is truth.

It is a confession. I might as well be standing trial in a courtroom. I might as well have a knife pressed at my throat right now. I might as well have the scroll of your body for parchment and a quill dipped in India ink awaiting my confession. Therein lies the answer. We do not write because to many of us, it means telling truths we are not ready to make our own.

As I write now I am listening to music. I have attached here what I am listening to and if you have heard it you will know that it is exceedingly beautiful. It is, in fact, so beautiful, it is making it difficult to retain a train of thought from going off the rails. It is rendering it almost impossible to write.

That made me think of what you said when we last spoke. You were lying there looking as strong and vulnerable as a snowflake. You asked me why is it that we don’t see each other more often. I replied, “because you don’t need to”. “No,” you said, “there are many things that I need that I do not know I need. Things that I forget I need… You see, the world is full of beautiful things that I get distracted.”

And I smile to myself as I write this because at that very moment, that exact second as the words escaped your mouth I was thinking to myself, “she speaks of beauty so simply, so easily, as though she were unable to see it of herself. But she is beautiful. Not as an adjective, but as a definition. As a synonym. She IS beautiful. Oh God, she just said my name and I haven’t really been listening.”

Well, you had been speaking of the world being so absolutely full up, chockablock, stuffed-to-the-gills, bursting-for-breath beautiful – to a point of distraction. And you are telling me this, who cannot but stare at the wonder that is you and be distracted by it. Sweet, the irony.

The only thing that binds you to me are these words you are reading that I wrote that meet your eyes and go to your mind, or to your heart. Once more – saying the spoken, telling the told; some words do not age. But we do. And in our oldness, we forget our selves. We forget that with truth there is freedom. And so there it is. A truth. Writing; the words and the act of submission to page have rendered me one lie less yet again. If there one thing that will make a honest woman of me, it will be this. It will only be this.