Gravity

I haven't written much in the last years. There are two reasons for it. The first excuse is that I write too much. My journal entries could be books, and my hand would ache for days afterward. And, honestly, who wants to get all up in that? At some point, other people have places to be instead of wrapped up in my ambiguity. The second reason I haven't written in years? Well, you see, I became apathetic toward any of the feelings I was writing all about. I suppose it was protection. I did believe writing helped save me somehow. In those moments. Those frequent moments of frenzy. Letters I would keep and never expose, journal entries, etc. During college classes, I would write on the outside stretches of my crappy notebook, the blank areas. I had to say it, and I had to do it regardless of what Professor Whomever was spewing. If I didn't, I could just simply die. It is a wonder I passed. My thoughts were strewn all over hell. And the writings would be so disjointed. Only I knew the code. My second reason: I lost the "healing" of expression on paper because I shut it out and I stopped feeling all of it. How much easier it is to not feel. And if I didn't write, I could not feel. Magically healed because of those choices? No, it's just a cork at its tightest, keeping all of the contents inside. Sloshing around.

Well, now I can type, so my hand can't possibly hurt that much. And my bottled material is stale. It should be poured out. It should be. I always admire those who lay it all out there. I want to not hesitate. However, I do stop. For fear of criticism from those closest to me because I shared just a little too much about them, their choices, my feelings about said choices. Ah, that tangle I find myself in. I suppose I'll still pick and choose.

Yesterday, my husband stated that he loved that I was so passionate about things. I never tried to be that way, and so I don't understand that statement. I see an average girl with multiple issues, but I don't usually place my love of specific things on my list of "Parts of my Personality." It all seems so normal that people should just thrive off of most things. But they don't. And I know people who don't relish in all of it. So, I guess I'm passionate about things; I take things in. But you have to know that I promptly dispose of items that don't appeal to me. This poses a major problem: it's special to someone else, but not to me, so I fail to remember it. Some people may call that selfishness. I suppose it is to some extent. I also call it apathy, but not toward my items of interest. And that's an unfortunate. So...I started writing again. To feel more clearly. Selflessness ensues?