And if it makes you less sad

1. This song may be hard to do this with, but I’m trying to challenge myself with my writing, and with cracking myself open more. I feel as if I’ve let the walls come up lately, with myself especially, and as a writer and a person who seeks to be enlightened and self-aware, I need to break down those walls. Some stories, and some memories, they still hurt like hell though and it is a scary thing to re-open them. This song makes me feel fragile, and sad.

2. Some stories we keep to ourselves for so long they start to feel fictional. You start to wonder if they ever really happened, or was it your mind playing tricks on you. Was it some kind of dream? Some sideways universe that you slipped into, like on some kind of convoluted J.J. Abrams plot, or did you actually live the experience? We can only tell stories to ourselves for so long before they start to dissolve. Maybe I should write it as fictional, though. I’m pretty sure that disguised in a story, far removed from who I am, would hurt a lot less.

3. Do all writers do that to a point? Write their own stories within the stories, and sneak in the stuff they have told no one? Does the act of writing it make it more real, or more imagined? I know the main voices of the two bigger stories I’ve been working my way through for a few years now, they are not all me, at times they are not anything like me, but they do carry some of my secrets in their character-baggage. I know it is there. I know where to find them.

4. I once loved someone who did not belong to me, and never would. This was not a passing infatuation, as I have found myself in that situation, as well. The analyst side of me would pin that on my own insecurities and self-esteem issues, that courting the affections of someone else’s someone would feed into my subconsicous (and admittedly, sometimes conscious) need to be loved and my often insatiable need to heal the echoing “you are not enough” scars. This time though, back when it happened, I fell hard and harbored delusions that it would work out somehow in the end. I was that person, the kind I shake my head at in puzzlement and say, often aloud, “how can anyone be so stupid?”. Well, I was pretty stupid in it and as predicted, I ended up devastated and heart-broken.

5. Thing is, I told no one about it, not really, not completely. So, the pain felt endless for a long, long time. And, after awhile it started to feel fictional. The proverbial question of “if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” comes to mind. If your heart breaks and no one knows it, did it truly break at all? And I healed, I did. It is not like it was yesterday. But, it is still a story that has not been told, and even now, just scratching at the surface of it, I’m not sure I’m ready to tell it. Maybe it will end up in a story of fiction someday; maybe.

The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot (live) :: Brand New

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