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I've been writing again

like I used to. I had the urge to grab an old notebook and write on the last page - a lyric, or a refrain - like I always do. I wrote the line to a song, a soundtrack to a rainy January afternoon of some years ago. But then the words veered away from the chorus, and suddenly they were singing on their own, without much effort or consternation. I couldn't stop it; I was no longer scribbling the lyrics to a song, I was writing my own prose of the same kind of wanting and searching and finding - as if merely re-writing someone's sentiments wasn't enough, as if it was a betrayal to my own feelings not having my say. It's been a while since I last wrote like I didn't have to chew the phrases, only feel them. And before I even lifted the pen from the paper, I knew. If they ask me why, I will tell them this. They will never understand, they won't have to. I am writing again. Finally, I hear the words singing from the page, we can form the sentences they've never allowed yourself to say.