The writing that I do is therapeutic because I don’t feel comfortable talking about a lot of what I write with the people that I am around. It isn’t because of them, it’s just me. I have trust issues. Ironically enough, I have created an outlet, online, for many of my hypotheses to be forever scrutinized by any and everyone. An amusing thought. The anonymity of the reader eases me. When I open my books and unscrew my fountain pen cap to write what is on my mind, or when I create these draft pages, the words begin to seep out like a crack in a dam. At first, there is no consistent flow to what I am attempting to convey but, before long, the minor leak gives way to a current that cannot be obstructed until the entirety of what has been contained has been set free. This is one of my dear elements. Through this release, I am able to find a momentary peace of mind. The pressure within the pipes returns to manageable levels. I am “in my head” a lot but it doesn’t paralyze me. I like being there. It’s my place to enjoy for myself. My notions, while they may sound complicated, in the manner that I document them, are not going to amaze the world in any real way. They are simply realizations that I have made of the world around me and the ways that I can help make it a better place for the people that I come into contact with. The thoughts are rich. Pliable. I catch myself smirking, at my own wild thoughts, sometimes, because it excites me to have made those intricate connections. Challenging the edges of my mind to create a new edge. I don’t know how long I will be able to claim this clarity so I must utilize it in order to open my heart to the world and allow them to see what I see. I am aware. I am beginning to extend my hand to you all. Because I know that I need you all. I am in the process of coming out of the shadows and exposing myself to the blinding light of vulnerability. These words are my truth. Described in the ways that I truly believe that they needed to be articulated.
I’ve been writing pretty consistently for the past seven months. None of what I’ve written is in here though. I don’t know why that is but as I type these words and these phrases come together I’ll have given you an answer. I hope.
It’s scary writing things out. It’s scary, to me, because there are no omissions to make when you’re writing to yourself. No lies or half truths. You’re verbalizing the mirror that you look at yourself with. Stripping yourself of every “build you up” compliment that anyone has ever given you, whether it’s the truth or they’re simply inflating your ego. You have got to deal with what you are. Do you like yourself? Yes? No? Why? Explain it. I gain a tremendous amount of clarity through writing. I feel as though I understand myself a bit more, but in the sense that I’m capable of so much that I really don’t know myself at all. I also develop a keen sense of awareness, regarding certain things. The moment that I’m writing in, the emotions that I feel while writing those words and the mental note of being in that situation, for future use. A lot of times, I wonder to myself “Why am I even writing these things on this blog? NOBODY CARES!! The point is kinda for people to care but, I mean, is it really? I do this for me, more than anything. Because I just don’t have a bunch of people I can go to and spill this to, and I feel as though I’m being more discreet in the sharing of said information by not bombarding anyone that doesn’t want to hear it. Let’s just omit the fact that the blog is on the internet.
I am no one and nothing, but not in a negative way. I am the balmy conditions that cause you to become restless in the ante. I am the sudden gust of cold wind that knocks you off of your feet in January.I am the stillness of the jungle.
I don’t do this for any recognition, I just want to talk to myself and be there for me when no one else can, through no fault of their own. The stuff I’m saying may not even resonate with you, but that’s okay. It’s great even. Good night.