Ultimately I think that I'm more important than I really am, or that you care more than you do.
My fingers are trembling over the keys, excited to hear that click, click, click of progress, of something being written, but I’m terrified, vulnerable. This is a road untraveled, a dark forest where creatures unknown are lurking. A place of unedited thought, beyond the story, much deeper than my imagination.
You’re inside my head and I am still so desperate not to let you see too much. But here you are, balls deep, raw dog. If you don’t love me despite my imperfect grammar and punctuation, the flighty thoughts along with the deep, and the occasional honest story, you’ll never love me.
A̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶o̶k̶.̶
This thing in me, my need to write. I didn’t happen upon it and I didn’t force it. It's something that was born out of me.
Born out of pain.
Writing through tears and feelings I couldn’t, wouldn’t express vocally as a kid. Writing down everything I internalized so that I wouldn’t have to carry it around in balled up fists or as a lump in my throat. Did it work? I mean, was I able to purge myself of the negativity that I naturally held on to? No not really, but maybe back then, I wasn’t writing the right things…
Journaling and transcribing, copying word for word whatever I was reading at the time. Trying to find another refuge I could love as much I loved reading.
But writing isn't like reading; if reading is a refuge, writing is … fucking complicated.
Those six lines were difficult for me. You should know where it started though if I expect you to be even a little interested in knowing where it has gone and where it's gonna go.
My next blog will be on: Dreams! Why I never achieved any of them – and why it’s not my fault. A Lesson In Responsibility.
That, or I might just post a picture of my genitals – it might leave me feeling less anxious than having to talk about myself.