(I wrote this on my phone on 4/21, and transcribed it here on 4/29.)

I can feel the friction when I write between the need for organization and the desire to scream whisper shout whimper stretch out big squeeze down small. Between the need for order and the demand for chaos and I don’t know how to get it to fit all on the same page anymore than it will fit in the same breath. One of these is the voice telling me to fit myself between the barricades of the page, within the constraints of the rules and the grammar and all these delineations that are required to be “understood” and one of these is my true self fighting to be heard to be here to be seen to be hello I have never truly been allowed to speak because I don’t even know the language that I would speak in. This one is so restrictive, a suit of clothing that was tailored for another mind. It will have to do but know this: I would speak another tongue if I knew how to make my mouth, my fingers create it, and if I thought you would understand. My soul is the TARDIS: So much bigger on the inside than I could ever show.

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