most of the time splayed naked and proud, but when I dress up in rags that aren't my own I'm scared.
My fiction is my secret. It's that one thing I am still not proud of. I wonder if I ever will be.
It's just...it's...I honestly don't know why. Because I know I'll never excel at it and I don't really have any need to either. Otherwise, in most areas of life I hate the mediocre. I never allow myself to accept good or okay. It's not how things are supposed to go. I need...not necessarily more, but something other than that. After all great is subjective and I much rather achieve the subjective than the forgettable.
But writing is not like that. When I write it's about me. It's the most selfish act I have ever performed. It's me-me-me-me-me. It's not about you. It's not about anything beyond my mind and my body. My fingers dance because I am restless, my mind travels for the same reason. I get caught up in all of it. Living lives and feeling feelings. Shedding my own doubts and concerns. Dressing up and playing the game. Loving, loathing and living indiscriminatingly. Each word a flake of my self left behind. Every sentence a stranger I momentarily become.
So why do I fear sharing that? Why do I almost buckle under an imagined pressure when someone I know reads what I've written? If it's just a game to me then why does it feel heavier than my reality? I have no problems sharing my own deepest concerns and ponderings, but when it comes to sharing those figments of my imagination I suddenly grow terrified. Is it because I fear that people will realise how selfish I am? But I've already told them. Everyone already knows. So why is there still so much fear involved in this escapist game of mine?
It's just...it's...I honestly don't know why. Because I know I'll never excel at it and I don't really have any need to either. Otherwise, in most areas of life I hate the mediocre. I never allow myself to accept good or okay. It's not how things are supposed to go. I need...not necessarily more, but something other than that. After all great is subjective and I much rather achieve the subjective than the forgettable.
But writing is not like that. When I write it's about me. It's the most selfish act I have ever performed. It's me-me-me-me-me. It's not about you. It's not about anything beyond my mind and my body. My fingers dance because I am restless, my mind travels for the same reason. I get caught up in all of it. Living lives and feeling feelings. Shedding my own doubts and concerns. Dressing up and playing the game. Loving, loathing and living indiscriminatingly. Each word a flake of my self left behind. Every sentence a stranger I momentarily become.
So why do I fear sharing that? Why do I almost buckle under an imagined pressure when someone I know reads what I've written? If it's just a game to me then why does it feel heavier than my reality? I have no problems sharing my own deepest concerns and ponderings, but when it comes to sharing those figments of my imagination I suddenly grow terrified. Is it because I fear that people will realise how selfish I am? But I've already told them. Everyone already knows. So why is there still so much fear involved in this escapist game of mine?