Processor.

Often, I don't know what I'm thinking until I say it. 

[Or write it.]

Yet, I rarely have conversations that get me to say what I'm not thinking. 

[And I don't push myself to write consistently, either.]

It's a strange thing, this knowing what you're supposed to do and not doing it.  

[And certainly not a splendid one.]

I don't process life until I process it outside myself.  

[I must talk, share, expel from my soul] 

My identity depends on how I process life...

If I'm not processing, I'm not actually living. 

If I'm not writing and having conversations that draw me out of comfort and into brutal honesty, I'm not processing.

I haven't been living for awhile now.   

Oh, the breath of fresh air to know what needs to be done.

[Hope that I actually do it.]