I spin words this way and that, when all I really want to do is split my ribs and plop my heart on the table. I want you to be stunned, scooting your chair back in a way that causes a screech on the floor. I want you to look at the still-pumping organ, then up to my unmoved face. I want you to say, “how do you do that?” And I want you to stick around for the answer.
It’s not that I want to sicken or disturb my readers. But often when I write, that’s how I feel. I just want to come across. I want to bridge the space between you and I, even if that space is perilous and high.
I want to be known and I want you to be known. I’m after the sacredness of shared humanity. I’m in it for the “me too”s.
I want to broach subjects like shame, abuse, and disease on this blog. I want to write posts that matter. I want to help myself and others. What holds me back is my fear of what people think. My fear of silence. My fear of judgement.
What if I lay my heart out and people run away? Or snarl and spit? Or, worse yet, what if they don’t blink? What if I bare it all and can’t cause a ripple?
All I can do, it seems, is write for myself. Live my life, recall my wounds, and transcribe them in the most pellucid way possible. I’m living. I’m trying. I’m writing.