I guess I’m bringing back the writing days. It feels eerie though. Odd. Wrong almost. You see, writing makes me feel naked. Taking my clothes off, that you could get me to do (excuse how that sounds). But handing you the authority to go deep inside me, to the core of my being, exposing my thoughts, and fears, and lies, and desires. That nauseates me. When another person sees you naked, you no longer have sole control over yourself. Because they know. And when they know, they judge. Sometimes they envy. But mostly, they judge. And paired with this judgement comes power. Power to shatter you, power to mend you, and power to simply accept you. But what kind of person would use this power to mend and accept? No one I know. Because whenever someone has taken this power from me, all they have done is crack, break and eventually shatter.