Writing and rambling. Is there a difference?

It’s a weird feeling. The slight pressure in the head, behind the eyes, pushing against the ears and the throat. This desire of release of something. Of everything.

I come back, mostly for myself and my recollection, to the fact that this blog is exactly what I need it for. It is a place that I can go to release that pressure. To shout out into the void and maybe someone hears it. But even if they don’t, the echo will last for as long as I keep it running. An echo that I can listen back to and see the different periods of my life. A chronicle of my journey.

My thought process right now is this: ‘Write anything and everything. Never mind if it doesn’t flow, never mind if it doesn’t make sense or have any sense of direction. The truth lies within the act itself.’

The words that I write here are flowing right off the top of the dome. I’m sitting outside on the back porch, its hot, currently 93 degrees Fahrenheit and 60% humidity. Theres a gentle breeze in this early evening, doubled by the fact that I have the porch ceiling fan on (which I don’t think actually is doing anything). I’m looking out over my backyard, which touches the bank of the pond we have. There’s a fountain that erupts all day is lit up at nights. The pond is mostly clean, there is some algae around the edges, but nothing too major. Actually… I just noticed that there is a gross film that is creeping along the top layer of the pond toward my corner, and I’ve never seen that before.

We’ve been having storms nearly every night, and I can smell the change in the air as I write this. I’ve been sitting outside for a few hours now, intermittently, but I can sense that the sun has been obscured by the storm clouds that I can see barely poking around the edge of the house. The smell of the air has also shifted to a stronger earthy smell. There’s a coolness on the wind now that is much more pleasant.

Have I figured out anything to actually write about? Maybe. I’ve broken the ice at the very least.