I’ve been going to as many open mics and poetry readings as possible since I’ve been back. There is a thriving spoken word community in New York. A collection of poets beyond the wildest imaginations. And they share their work with one another. I feel out of place. I want to talk about words, create and recreate, rehash old works and work on new pieces but writing is lonely. Private. I haven’t found balance. I feel like pushing myself to explore the public realm with my words is like defecating in the living room. My writing happens when I am alone and furious. My writing happens when I am alone and giddy. My writing happens every day, and it happens when I am alone. Is writing like shitting? Is it a necessary but private part of my life that I need to do to survive and will never quite understand? Writing might be like shitting for me. I do it every day. I recycle what I have digested. When I take in good things, I feel better later. I am regular. Shitting and writing are lonely auspices, but I cannot escape them else I die. They are similar, but not the same. For instance, I use paper for both, but for very different reasons.