Sometime in early 2014...
If only I could blog in detail about everything. I can't. I can't not because I care about my own privacy. I don't. I would share my every thought and feeling in my world with all the world if I could and they wanted to know. But people. People keep secrets and people think their world is none of this world's business.
Maybe that's true.
But if you took the time to click a link and open this blog post, you care about my world for some reason. Maybe you care about it because it's interesting. Maybe you care about it because you hate me and want to see if I fail. Maybe you're nosy. Maybe you're just curious. Maybe you're looking for clues because someone in my world is part of your world too. Or maybe I'm part of your world and you're searching for what's deep inside me. Maybe you're just bored. But, for some reason, you're reading this and that means you want my world to be your business.
But people. Other people just don't care for that sort of thing so I can't share my world when they are part of the story. I guess there are some stories best left untold. I don't mind baring the ugly little pieces of me that make up the little monster inside me that comes out sometimes. Not everything is always pure and beautiful. Although I'd argue that my monster is just as beautiful as my angel. I don't mind even confessing my transgressions or bad thoughts or closet-skeleton-making actions.
BUT PEOPLE. They don't want THEIR story told. And some people wouldn't want to hear parts of mine. Maybe they'd never be able to understand. Maybe they'd never truly hear my explanation. Maybe I wouldn't even give one.
But PEOPLE. So, I cannot blog about every detail. But I can be cryptic. I can be poetic. I can speak in metaphor or that language of shared memories that only some understand. And those who click here or there or somewhere later, they will know. They will see me below the details. And albeit unfair to the nosy ones or the ones out to see me fail, that is probably the best way.
I wrote yesterday that I hope I lived long enough to write the story of my life because everyone in it would have to be dead so they can't read it. My brother said that's because I wouldn't want people to know how I feel about them deep inside. It made me laugh. People know how I feel about them. I have no hidden feelings. They're all out there, worn like skin, all the time. The girl at the counter at 7-11 would know how I felt about her if I felt anything at all about her. The closest people to me know how I feel about them sometimes second to second. They know in words, and laughs, and tears, and crossed arms or furrowed brows, or yelled obscenities Very rarely, they know in silence. Silence is always my final treatise. Irony, eh? How I feel isn't a mystery to anyone.
There was a time when I was walled off, cold and hard. I kept my feelings in a little vial in my pocket and pulled it out only to poison my life or the people in it. No more of that. No more walls. It was lonely back there. I broke that vial. It was poison. It tried to kill me. No more of that. I wear my emotion like a skin suit. You can see it, you can harm it. You can poke at it and examine it and laugh at it and judge me for it. It's out there in all it's beautiful honesty and rawness. It's out there.
BUT PEOPLE! People tell me to put my feelings away. To, at least, keep a little bit in that damned vial. People keep telling me I'm too emotional. People keep telling me to hide more of myself away. People keep telling me to cover up my skin suit.
No.
No, I will not.
I am emotional, but so are you. You are emotional too. You may have it in a vial in your pocket, you may tuck it away behind your wall. You may try to drown it in alcohol or mute it with pills or choke it with smoke but IT IS THERE.
And DAMN PEOPLE for telling me to go back there. Damn people for having some insane notion that they are somehow more appropriate or correct to hide their tears or stifle their anger or suffocate their pain with a fake smile and excuses like pride and dignity and social propriety.
Oh get REAL. No, I mean it, get R E A L. Smash your vial, use the bricks of your wall to build a stair case and stand up on top of it and scream and cry and shout and laugh and sing.
When you get up there, you'll understand. You'll stop telling me to stop being "so emotional". I'm no more emotional than you. I am simply more honest. I am simply fully open. I am simply atop the platform I built with the bricks of the wall I tore down when I was like PEOPLE! That thing that looks like a hot mess crying and seeming to sputter every word that is running through her head in real time; that thing is called FREEDOM.
*If you still don't understand why the players in my story would have to be dead for me to write it, then reread. Sheesh. PEOPLE!!
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