You know, at some point in my life, I started to avoid writing. I avoided it, despite all the joy and ambition it drugged me with. When writing, I could go anywhere, be who I truly am, and work towards a bright, successful future…
But writing is no different than dreaming, and dreams, dug up from memories and subconscious thoughts, are how your heart and brain speak to you. Writing became a vulnerable outlet of truth when I wanted to dictate the truth. I couldn’t write, because writing revealed who I really am to the world and myself.
Writing told me when it was time to move on. Writing revealed that I wasn’t as in love as I thought I was. Writing rationalized what I wanted to be angry about. Writing told me that I wasn’t as bad as I wanted to believe. Writing teared out my heart, brain, and guts, and forced me to look at it.
When I think I’m safe, it slithers into my ear and whispers, “I know you better than you ever will.”