Folding, and Unfolding.

As an aspiring writer, I’d like to think the closest you can get to a writer intimately, is to read their work. It’s not about getting naked, or sharing deepest, darkest secrets. It’s about reading things we’ve pulled from the farthest corners of our minds.

Unfortunately, to find my backbone as a writer, I had to go out and get my heart broken. The one that I want to forget, of course is my muse. I write to forget him, when inevitably, it brings me closer to him. It’s haunting, really.

I find that writing brings somewhat of a closure to my past, to the things I cannot learn to let go of. And since I can’t find strength to let them go, I write to burrow through myself to find meaning in them, why I let something happen to begin with.

And onto the subject of him, because that’s what it’s always about, right? Him. I can tell you all about him, all about him with ease, strangely enough. But if I were to find myself running into him, I couldn’t say a damned thing. I wouldn’t even know what to open with. How do you communicate with someone who used to love you? Especially when your feelings haven’t changed.

I’m someone that always has something to say. I could write about him, all day, every day. I’d, of course, never tell him that. I’ve let him see me naked, see me cry, I’ve even let him into the ins and outs of my life, but if it ever came down to let him read anything I’ve ever written, about him or not, hell would freeze over. It’s the doorway into my head, and that is no place for him. Not when we were together, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

I feel that if any of the different ways of being intimate were to collide, it’d be a ticking time bomb. They should never be the same audiences. My way of thinking with the person I’m with, is a completely different level to the way I’m thinking about the words I put to paper. At least in the sense that I let that person see. I find comfort in strangers, more so than with the one I’m with. That could cause some issues.


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