There's that picture of me again, the one that is me but not me.

That which I see when I read a story or verse that I had written so long ago or just minutes past.

But I'm not the face holding the pen, I'm not pecking away at the keys, and I'm not scribbling frantically with a pencil.

The voice that is expressing such sinuous feeling and profound thought is not my own. I am simply beside myself; outside of the creative realm of who I am.

That which I become when writing something deep pulled from the belly of an emotion that is far beyond my own experiences. 

If I calm the surreal, I can sometimes conjure forth the paradox of being overwhelmed by a spewing forth of words. They pour though my brain faster than I can transform them into immortality by merely placing permanence to the syllables.

I run the syntax across my synapses to sting my subconscious with attempts to recall the moment the process began. What possessed the non-me to steal inspiration from a verbal hiccup that tossed nothing head on into something?

My synopses of my very own mind movie... It plays over every time I read the words that I birthed. I'm the producer, the director, the editor and the actor - all while viewing it from the other side as if it’s uniquely new.

One day I’ll go over this line by line and I will wonder as to what prompted the author to stack each letter together in such a manner as to form this particular grammatical diagram?

Perhaps I will even say "I wish that I had written that", while feeling that I couldn't have but knowing that I did!

Jh 7.2.13 11:28 PM