The world doesn’t express me yet.
Because words grow inside, like a monster of vines under the skin and I have to let it out. Because words are better than screams, because words require discipline and rules.
Better the illusion of control than the madness of insanity.
I started writing because the world didn’t provide what I was looking for, so I decided to make it myself. Then I became afraid of what I was writing and hid it all away. Then I realized that writing was good, that my fears were unfounded, that in the great and vast world, there is room for acceptance, even if it’s only me who is accepting.
There is room for all slices of me in my writing.
Although I frequently suppress certain slices, I am falling into this net of the www. and praying it holds and doesn’t spill me into the darkness. At some point, in some measure, I am paranoid that the slices of me that don’t fit in vanilla land will be discovered and used against me.
Scars still have memories. But we never remember the pain of the first scar, the severance of a babe from it’s mother. Navels, scar tissue, separation, cold: the world touches like fire and ice, both kill indiscriminately.
Now I write so the slices don’t drift apart and disappear. It’s my impromptu security, the holy of holies forever in my mind, expressed in paper and diffused to the uncaring world-
Like bubbles that drift away, I won’t have to see them popped.
I write because I have convinced myself that is safe to write. That I have a medium through which I bring the creatures out to play.
I shudder of the stories crammed in my brain, the characters half-forgotten but still so tangible to me. I could slip them on like comfortable pajamas. They get me through life, even as I begrudgingly bring their lives to light. I’m selfish, reluctant to share them, but simultaneously wanting to show them off.
How does one soul hold such contradiction?
I write because… I have to.