In the beginning, there was silence...

So I am supposed to write here. Every now and then, I feel like going somewhere behind the mountains, underneath the water, deep in the forests of Mississipi, or deserts of Arizona to yell out all the words that are stuck in me. Words bear me down. But talking to people is difficult sometimes. They think you want something from them, or they think you don't want anything from them. It's hard, being with people sometimes. So I chose this little warm dark corner. I wish there was a fireplace here, built in, with a glass of red wine and good music, to ease the pain. So here, I am supposed to free myself of the burden of words I carry inside. Writing doesn't free me of this burden of being, but it is a way out of here. Out of this fleshy being of mine. The responsibilities held by this flesh makes me out of breath. That's why I come here, more often, now that I know I am not going to be misunderstood by the bodies I talk to. The bodies maybe ghosts trapped in spider webs, like you, but friendly ears, that's all I need. It feels good here, keep me hanging, before you pull the chairs underneath my feet. Cliff Hanger Style.