Whenever I feel deeply about something or someone, I write poetry. Even then, I hold back. I didn't realize this until a very astute person I am proud to call friend pointed this out to me. We even talked about it a little.
When I write, I feel my misery and my pain. I try ot work through it, face it. However, my words don't show the tears I shed or reverberate with the sobs that wrack my body. Even as I pour out my feelings onto the page, I hold back. Why? Because I fear. I fear ridicule, mockery. These are private feelings, heartfelt renderings of my self, but I can't bring myself to share the innermost parts.
I wallow in my misery to deal with it. I cover myself in my depression to experience it and allow it to teach me a lesson. Yes, I sound melodramatic, but life is full of drama. Just stand out on your lawn one day and watch it unfold before you. Shakespeare once said life was like a stage, and I agree with him.
So, where do my most secret feelings go? Into a journal, most of them anyway. The really hard stuff I can't possibly deal with alone. I write them down like I am talking to someone; like I'm doing now in fact. The journal is filled with the mundane and trivial as well, but it's had tears shed on it's many volumes. It's been thrown down in disgust, in anguish. Love, hope, depression,. anger, the full range of emotions have been written in its pages.
Why am I writing this little piece, this essay of sorts? Because I wish to show I'm human, and I do live in the real world. I've been accused of living in a fantasy world, of having reality issues, because of what I write and how I act. My stories use a fantasy setting, but they're about real life. Isn't love reality? Isn't death and war? Isn't rejection and acceptance? Sure, I'd love to be back in the Middle Ages, but that's a period of harsh reality too. Anyway, I am firmly entrenched in reality, and I've forgotten my silver spork. You haven't seen it by any chance, have you? |
