on writing

over the last few days i have wanted to write so much but have been so consumed by life and it's protuberances that the wood has been too close for the trees or something like that.
i cannot say much about the actual happenings of the days, they have been convoluted and full of small discoveries; sad awakenings; cruel facts of various kinds. then of course there has been the bread and butter kind of reality that is inescapable.
in terms of what and how i would like to convey, through writing, something and at some point, i realise i need to really find that voice inside; or really link it to my fingers. i need to be honest, like you might be to a close friend or someone you trust. i need to write like i think, or talk, and lose all inhibitions. like when you are with a friend or even with your self and no holds are barred. your thought is free and colourful, sometimes debased and sometimes divine. that is how i want to write, for better or worse. i am tired of the translator that lives somewhere between my brain and my fingers and wish to now execute that translator.
i will sleep and see if he/ she is dead in the morning.