It doesn't matter to me if I'm writing into the air. The words come through my fingers into existence. They help me. Not to know what I think, necessarily. Although, they do make sense of my jumble of thoughts. They organize them. Sometimes they form a kind of beauty. Although, not always. They can't be sung-- not as they are. They could be altered later; It's true.
They are not love letters or prayers. They are not poems (not really). They are not arguments. They are not therapy (even as they make me feel better). They are not words for words's sake. Although, sometimes that's exactly what they are.
There's something about the process that brings peace, that makes life better. They are an expression of something existential. They are a mysterious communication. They are hopeful, sad constructions. They are my way of being, my small mark on this time and place. Crazy, always changing world.