i’m shaking my head right now

because i don’t know who’s looking.

& that’s why i feel like i don’t know what to write. i’ve been typing & backspacing for the past 10 minutes, halfway worried about reactions to what i might wanna express. the other half of me is concerned that i’ll come off as stupid, shallow, unaware, unfeeling, or any other pejorative. & i’m mad at that. i’m mad that all of a sudden, i care enough to censor myself, even a little bit. writing is my first instinct when there’s something i want to release. & here i am trying to be discreet or polite or cryptic or whatever the fuck just so i can blog in relative peace. me 5 years ago. that’s regressive. i need not be that way with something i value as a tool for maintaining my sanity. my writing is so very important to me. it’s not right for me to modify it for anyone who doesn’t have to spend their time reading it to begin with.

so, let’s start over.

my words are not meant to satisfy anyone but me, as i am the writer. i am a vessel for thought & emotion, not the agent of the wishes of other human beings. it doesn’t work that way. i am a writer not because i choose to be, but because i don’t genuinely know how to be anyone else. i am not trying to be anyone’s novelist, favorite poet, or columnist. i write for myself. if don’t write, i don’t breathe. if i don’t let out what’s in me & on my mind when it should be let out, i run the risk of losing myself. i don’t know how to allow silence to dictate my life. audre said our silences wouldn’t protect us. to me, silence is relative to your actions. as a writer, a failure to scratch it all onto college-ruled paper is tantamount to swallowing a scream. if i don’t sit down and type it out at 65 wpm before it eats me up, then i’ve managed to fail the impetus to create. that impetus is as important as nourishing my body. please believe it. if you don’t know that for yourself, i’m sorry. but i follow it. everywhere it leads me. the spark that causes a smile to spread across my face when i hear a favorite song is the same that makes me creative with what i wear out of my home each day; it’s the same thread that joins all of my creativity. it’s an energy that i don’t know how to ignore.

i will write for the rest of my days, even if i’m the only one who’ll ever see the words.

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