Sometimes I am afraid to write the truth.
And doesn’t that somehow equate to: “I am afraid to face the truth.”
…Am I afraid to face the truth?
And if so, why now?
I have done many scary things. Many hard things.
Mainly, what I’m referring to is: I went on a misson.
Before that, at least in my memory, I was rarely afraid to write the truth.
Regardless, I always found a way.
What has changed?
And why I am not better at writing the truth now, instead of the other way around?
. See? There it is.
. I was afraid to say “worse”
. I dodged it with a common phrase–
. “the other way around”
. That way I didn’t have to actually say I am now worse at what I love SO MUCH.
. Or maybe I avoid the word “worse” because:
. I don’t really believe it.
. I believe the me that writes the truth, is still in there.
. I’m not ready to say she is gone. I’m not sure that is the truth.
S0 why am I not writing the truth now?
One answer at least: I don’t practice.
I get worse at things I’m not regularly practicing.
I used to have shelves and shelves of living notebooks.
Always a pen and a journ in my bag.
Part of learning to write the truth back then, was that I was always trying to.
And so, I was always learning to.
Since then, since I’ve stopped trying to write the truth,
I’ve found that I see much less of it.
When I’m walking home or waiting at a stoplight,
I don’t see my life and feel my heart like I used to.
I don’t churn my language
I don’t mold my phrases
I don’t listen to what I feel so I can
later sit down and scrawl it out until I say:
That. That is what my life is like. I found it and I found how to say it.
I don’t articulate. express. ask. edit. speak. listen.
Instead, I continually come to that moment where I need my words and
…they are not there.
Because I have not sought them
spent time with them
asked for them
Writing was like praying then.
Writing was like revelation. In my handwriting.
That’s why, on pages, I found the truth.
People do not know me as the girl with the notebook anymore.
But I know me: