I think I feel things a little too much. And then I don't really feel at all, because I try to shut it down. I don't click on articles of Husband Takes Last Photo Shoot With Dying Wife. Or This Is What Refugee Children Look Like. How can I look at that without breaking into a million pieces? I can't look. I listen. But you can't see me and I can't see you and I think it's better this way. Better for me, which is quite selfish. I wish I got angry and righteous and indignant, but instead I get quiet and panicked and weepy. You can't do much with weepy. Weepy doesn't get things done.
I'm back after three years because there are so many softsweetterriblebeautifulugly words bubbling in my muscles and bones, and I need to get them out. My skin is thin as a grape's and it is about to split, words gushing from my fingertips and eyeballs and strands of hair, just words coming and coming, like a gentle, sweet scream of relief. I used to be so careful with my writing, editing and reediting and rewriting and deleting, and blogging took too long, and I started hating it. I wasn't writing for myself, there was no truth there, it was only a cover. I wrote and wrote but I barely wrote what I really thought and felt. I rarely say what I really think and feel. I listen, I speak, but I don't really say anything.
I think I sound a little dramatic.
