Somewhere along this journey, in the tormenting time that has passed, which is past, I've let go of something that I didn't want to. I used to be praised, applauded for having an "uncanny ability to fearlessly share" ...
But here I sit, staring at three -- ... no... four now -- drafts just waiting to be published. And I am struck by a fear I haven't felt in a long time. That this isn't a safe place for me anymore. What could have caused it? Where did I go wrong? Fuck...
Maybe, just maybe, I can relapse on reality for a moment, get hazy enough in my convictions to hit the looming blue-shaded button that allow you to see what I am. Then again, maybe I don't. Maybe the feeling of pushing it out from under my fingernails is therapeutic enough.
When my fingers get sore from typing, or cursive, I shake my hands, like a small child who just touched something icky. I picture the next few phrases like it were splatter paintings from my shaking. Just. Another. Few. Words. And to tie things up, a ramble or two about a cramp or four.
I hope that I can figure out a way to publish that which has yet to be published.
In the past, I've held back stories, works of fiction, but this was supposed to be different. It WAS different. One-hundred and Fifty pieces later, I saw something in the ocean and dove in. Perhaps a rekindling of where I was at emotionally, mentally, spiritually(?), all those years ago would spark a match hot enough to catch fire to the walls I've since built up, unbeknownst to me. Until I saw that number next to "DRAFTS" build higher.
Written, but never shared. The first one was probably due to time. I've been writing during my commute a lot lately, for freelance jobs, and occasionally myself, and those words most likely got left in the queue by mistake, or a burnt-out mind. The second, I'm less sure about. The third? ... did I ever finish that thought I started? Does it matter?
I'll stop this train now before I post a piece with a vague numbered list of excuses as to why I am not succeeding at doing the thing that is so involuntarily me.
Me. There's a chance I am unsure of what that means these days.
Perhaps I've just solved it.
Until we kill again,