I want to tell someone that half of the things I do doesn’t matter to me. That half of the things I read and pretend to understand doesn’t make sense. It would be even better if that can be understood as a form of honesty; something that I say because I have to say it, not as another thing I say to earn approval.
Sadly, I need approvals. I’m happiest when I’m with myself. I approve myself. My crappy hobbies, my shallow topics to write about…the fact that I don’t need a thesaurus when I’m writing for myself. The fact that I can talk to myself and insult everyone who makes my list of the nastiest people I’ve ever met and be okay about me being evil. Be okay with the fact that I truly dislike some people and wish the ugliest things to happen to them, even with the fantasies that include myself doing some of the dirty things.

What is it about the part of ourselves that we wish to keep secret? What’s so wrong with letting it all out in the open for everyone to see? What do we not want anyone to find out about ourselves? Why?
Does that mean there is a part of us that we don’t like? Something that we’re ashamed of, and yet we desperately want to keep?

And there are people, of course, who never even ask the questions. And they’re probably the happiest lot. They just get on with what they have, go where the current takes them, never having that nasty feeling tagging along that provokes you to pause and look back…look at how dirty you are.
The thing is, once you pause, you can never move on again until you find out, or come to terms with the reason for the pause. Even worse if you pause, and you could never find the reason. Funny, because the reason should come to you before the pause. If the pause comes first, it’s like something that happens without a cause. Next step? Blow your head off looking for the reason.

From me? Good luck.


Writing feels so much better when you're honest. And it doesn't happen to me often. This is one of the few. Hhhh.