There is a conflict when the writing is over.
I fear I use my words before their time. I unwisely want to save them, storing them away to be ready for another time. Afraid the good ones will be buried beneath the pile of words to come and will never again be tossed in your mind or put to use.
But they arrive when they do. Pushing away the security of their solitude to be understood. Leaving behind an eternity between the closed covers of journals and scribbles on lost tears of paper.
There is a purpose and reason for their timing beyond my intention. Though unseen, I work to live in their openness.