To Be Anonymous

I want to empty my mind onto the page, but I don’t want anyone to read what comes of it. I feel a lot without much to say until it overflows. I want to watch it pour over the rim of the vessel it has been slowly filling, one drop at a time. Drip, drip it went while I wiled away at one thing or another, lost in my head.

What spills over is a jumbled incomprehensible mixture of things that make some sense or no sense at all. Like curdled milk, the floating chunks fall out first, at an inconsistent rate and punctuated by heavy splattering sounds. If anyone were around to witness it they would need a wide umbrella and a rain suit. Boots would help them maneuver the accumulating mounds of various colors and shapes. Some folks might not mind the mess, but I’d like to spare them all the same. What is the point of exposing another person to the unnerving sardonic negativity that is also present on that page? It falls like a layer of stale dust, making everything taste musty and bitter.

I want to be a written recluse, hiding behind a pen and using that outlet to drain the tank until there aren’t any words left. I would take the pages signed Anonymous and bury them deep in the ground. I would feel safe knowing that my product is unattached to me. I would protect myself, as well as the audience who digs it up later, torn and decomposing.

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