astray in reality

October 2, 2010
By Anonymous

I’m ashamed for exposing the truth about me. I’m penitent that I’ve tentatively told the one who’s least trustworthy, least loyal, who I am. I’m tormented by the thought of him spreading the truths I’ve told him, or even worse, keeping them to himself. I’m terrified that he’ll laugh quietly behind my back, or that he’ll turn my friends against me… but maybe most of all, I’m worried that he’ll actually care. Why does it matter? Because he might think that I’m geeky, dorky, emo, annoying, full of myself… the list goes on and on. Or perhaps he might just know me better than he should, and that scares me. I want him to like me, to care about me, to look forward to the time we spend hanging out together. Maybe, eventually, I even want him to love me. Is that all ruined, destroyed, by the stuff I’ve revealed to him? Has he judged me, labeled me, decided I’m something I’m not? Or does he just know me too well now – understand me more than I wish for him to?
He’s seen the scars on my forearm, healing on the outside but not within. He’s read the thoughts that I write on paper but keep to myself, hidden, although perhaps exhibited to some random trusted strangers.
My head is empty of ideas and innovations to put into words, descriptive words, the beautiful words that usually energize me. The words have left me like a spirit leaving the body. They have become empty, bland, boring. I can't write anymore, chronic writer's block - is it called fear? - pinning me down. Without spirit, what is the point behind the words?
I’ve finally written about myself. Not about a girl who personifies me in every way, but whom I have deliberately kept separate from my own life; not about a story that secretly represents my own. I’ve written the raw truths, the facts that plague me. Fiction has dissipated and fact/feeling has conquered. How, then, can I recapture my gift for words? Because what I am, who I am, has nothing to do with my personal truths and my personal story. It has to do with the stories I weave, the short pieces that sum up the fear and depression and puzzlement and upset I feel increasingly with every day of empty life. Does this mean that I’ve lost myself in the midst of reality?

The author's comments:
i didn't put any effort into this - it's all free-writing, so the quality might not be good. it was difficult for me to write, emotionally anyway, which is why i'm posting it anonymously.

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