Your voice.
It's been almost 10 days since my last update, and for that I must apologize profusely. I've been so busy with Lilas, taking her on a trip around France that I haven't had the chance to sit down and properly write an entry. But yes, here I am, back in my Parisian home, music wafting through my ears, my fingers poised to type whatever they please. Yet I've realized that I've run out of words. I've often wondered why I don't have the diligence to update daily, or even every other daily. And the answer came to me yesterday.
I haven't found my voice.
You know how writers are always lamenting about how they've got writer's block, or that the voice of the novel is all wrong? Well I think I'm going through the same thing. Okay, so maybe I'm not a writer, a journalist, or even a poet. But this nagging feeling tugging at my heart tells me that I'm not really being myself. Whatever I write is covered in this sugary icing that says "I'm great, the world is great, everything is great." This icing must come off sometime, it eventually melts off and turns into nothing but a sugary goo that will evaporate and cause the ants to come marching in one by one, scraping the sugary substance off. Yet after this happens, all I'm left with is my voice. My raw voice. One that I hardly show, hardly use, in fear that someone might see right through me, point, and say, "LOOK!"
Without the icing I feel naked. Like I can't present myself to the world. I'm embarassed, nervous, and unsure of myself. Gone is the confidence that came with bubbly and enthusiastic. What takes its place is the uncertainty of ... me. And as much as I hate to say this, there's nothing around me that I can cover myself with. That depresses me.
Yes, I do realize that France is full of nude beaches and so I should be perfectly at home, stripped bare. Physically, yes, I am. I grew up with the ideal that there's nothing wrong with nudity. But spiritually, mentally, I need something to cover myself. Perhaps it's the lack of this covering physically that makes me crave it mentally. Who knows?
All I know that my raw voice will not work for me until I'm comfortable in its shoes. Till then, maybe I need this sugary facade to drape over me so that I feel safe and protected. It's the only thing that weill keep me from dropping and falling, plunging deep down into the seas, never to be found again.
I haven't found my voice.
You know how writers are always lamenting about how they've got writer's block, or that the voice of the novel is all wrong? Well I think I'm going through the same thing. Okay, so maybe I'm not a writer, a journalist, or even a poet. But this nagging feeling tugging at my heart tells me that I'm not really being myself. Whatever I write is covered in this sugary icing that says "I'm great, the world is great, everything is great." This icing must come off sometime, it eventually melts off and turns into nothing but a sugary goo that will evaporate and cause the ants to come marching in one by one, scraping the sugary substance off. Yet after this happens, all I'm left with is my voice. My raw voice. One that I hardly show, hardly use, in fear that someone might see right through me, point, and say, "LOOK!"
Without the icing I feel naked. Like I can't present myself to the world. I'm embarassed, nervous, and unsure of myself. Gone is the confidence that came with bubbly and enthusiastic. What takes its place is the uncertainty of ... me. And as much as I hate to say this, there's nothing around me that I can cover myself with. That depresses me.
Yes, I do realize that France is full of nude beaches and so I should be perfectly at home, stripped bare. Physically, yes, I am. I grew up with the ideal that there's nothing wrong with nudity. But spiritually, mentally, I need something to cover myself. Perhaps it's the lack of this covering physically that makes me crave it mentally. Who knows?
All I know that my raw voice will not work for me until I'm comfortable in its shoes. Till then, maybe I need this sugary facade to drape over me so that I feel safe and protected. It's the only thing that weill keep me from dropping and falling, plunging deep down into the seas, never to be found again.