Why do I feel like I need to hide here?
I want to be so poetic but the whole point of journaling was to actually expel some of these ever-circulating thoughts that churn in the confines of my mind with no purpose. I find myself feeling so inadequate in my writings, that the drafts just get sequestered in red tape and bogged down by my general disscontempt for.. for what? Being a thought?
No… for being a thought that isn’t highly ornate. A thought that isn’t completely crafted in fanciful wording or constructed with delicate vocabulary and intricate imagery. Maybe someday I’ll get over the expectations and just post whatever I feel like without the looming guilt of publishing something ‘imperfect’.
Is this what this is about? My obsession with perfection (or at least the illusion of it?)? Except I’ve been pretty explicit in the slaughtering of what I thought was my perfect life. I’ve been honest in the aftermath of abuse.
But even in those, I’ve contrived them to be tragically beautiful… perfectly damned. Raw in their pain and brutality of events recounted over and over… through therapy sessions and haunting nightmares. Somewhere in publishing these filtered entries, I am a storyteller dissociated from the reality of it being them being pages of my own story. They’ve been retouched and edited meticulously to make them seem artificially unreal. I’ve captured these in a glass box and brandished them to strangers- observe, but don’t touch. See, but don’t feel.
So I guess here is my leap into imperfection?
To vulnerability in being incomposed?
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