I’ll never learn.
If I were brave, I’d be writing a very different post.
Type something true, something real, then read it.
“I can’t write that!”
Backspace, backspace, backspace…
There, it’s gone.
Or is it? Of course it’s not. It’s just another thought that I’ve heaped onto the pile of things that I can’t tell you — one more thing to keep me up at night.
I’ll never learn to be myself.
The line between what is my life and what is yours is often blurred. If we both experience something, is it my story to tell or yours? Should you have editorial privilege?
I don’t believe that you should, but still I hesitate.
What right do I have to claim to be misunderstood, if I don’t even understand myself?
Let me try again.
I’m wounded. I’ve experience a spate of misfortune that has knocked me from my center. Some of my woes were self-induced while the rest can be attributed to others, life, or plain old happenstance. In the past, I’ve been the type of person who bounces back, but not this time. I’ve retreated to a place where malaise is not a temporary condition but a way of life. There are the unreturned calls from a few dear friends, who worry, the inability to focus on anything – except the trivial, and an indifference towards, well, everything.
The simplest tasks elude me, except for right now. As I type, certain that I will actually be finishing something – anything, I feel a rush of energy that is unfamiliar to me in the recent past.
Remaining unwritten, for today, are the Who, What, Where, When, How, and Why, but I’m okay with that for the moment. Tomorrow, I may feel differently.
Tomorrow, I may be braver.
I don’t know what I’ve accomplished by writing this post, but at least I feel like I’ve done something.