I was considering writing something really profound and revealing. I’d reconsidered. I’m not very good at written honesty. It bugs the shit out of me.
I wish I just could, you know, rip myself apart on a piece of paper or in a Word document. It’s an itch I cannot bring myself to scratch. I used to do it – for my eyes only – but that’s shit. If you write something and no one reads it – it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s like that famous story about a tree which fell and no one heard the poor thing. If I fall, I want people to hear about it.
It doesn’t have to be a bang, I’ll be satisfied with a whimper.
This is the part where I stare at the screen, willing myself to do the brave thing. To spill my guts, idiomatically. The wall in my brain refuses to cooperate though, because I cannot, I will not write down something I don’t have the balls to publish.
Am I afraid to put things in writing because I know that once you infuse emotional reality with linguistic structure you’re forced to face the truth? Probably.
Maybe I just prefer it that way. Uncondensed and unbound, wreaking everyday havoc, making life more fun and exciting. Yawn.
I keep searching for a way to structure my life in a way which will stop me from thinking about all the glorious ways I could set fire to the flimsy reality I cling to.