Writer’s Chair

Sitting here on my last morning/day of freedom, I’m asking myself why I keep writing about certain things. Why I keep talking about certain things. Why? Opinionated people say things like “keep that to yourself”, “[insert site here] is not a diary”, and “how do you cope in real life if you’re like this online”?

I found writing to be a powerful coping mechanism to document my journey. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I also examine the very ugly. I speak up, I put it out there, I don’t think of the consequence. There have been consequences, healing moments, and new friends. There have been spies, enemies, and folks who just…stare at you. I write to cope, to get things off my chest. I write to get things off my head. I write, so that when I look back, I can see who I was in that moment. I learn from things. I have moments of wisdom and clarity. I have to rush to record my findings.

I have been this way before I became a Nichiren Buddhist, and it never had a “thing” or a title to it. In discussion and study meetings, I’ve come to find that being a Bodhisattva of the Earth, you learn and accumulate and come to realize with great depth all the time. You piece things together, you see why X and Y lead to Z. Or, in my case…why V was led to D and J.

I have to let go of the idea that I look like a fool to exes who may be watching. Let them watch! I’m sure they already talk (if they remember me.) and talk aplenty. My job isn’t to hold a glass to the wall and see what they think or feel. I’m not asking them how I feel. I’m not asking anyone to tell me how I feel. I’m understanding and growing as a person. I will never ever be done growing. I’m 29, and I barely know who I am in this moment. It keeps changing.

I probably will be a “crazy cat lady” who hoards collectibles. But that’s not my calling. That’s a label usually secured for those of us who’re just peculiar in this lifetime. We don’t quite fit in, we’re a bit obsessive, but we are brilliant people. In some way, we are ever so brilliant. I write for these reasons. Coping, clarity, journey collection, learning, and quirk. I want to love, to live, and be a happy person just like anyone else in this life. It just so happens that I write my you-know-what off at every turn. If not here, my poetry blog. If not my poetry blog, my tumblr. If not tumblr, somewhere.

Someday I will depart from it. On that day, I will either be complete as a person, unable to type anymore, or dead. My writing is the voice that is usually very quiet in the real world. I’m a silent person. I make just enough noise to let you know I’m here. If we’re cool, then yeah I probably don’t shut up. I’m probably wacky without an off button. That means I trust you. I’m loose, I’m free, I’m a comfortable bunny.

Anyway, I asked myself the question I’m sure everyone who has ever been in my life wanted to know. It started out with a scented diary from Jewel-Osco. Progressed to slam books, notebooks, DiaryLand, LiveJournal, Xanga, Blogger, Tumblr, and here. I’ve tried not to write. It builds up like a liquid waiting to burst. It itches me to the point where all of my body darts for a source of creation. There are probably letters rolling around in my bloodstream.

Maybe people think I write to be callous. Or, a gossip. Or, to just tell everyone’s daggone business and tell all my business because I’m a lonely soul with no friends. Had I more friends, I’d still write. Things like that don’t change my desire to write. Things like that aren’t why I write. I feel what I feel, I try to get it out. How simple and complex is that?

It is 5 in the morning. What am I doing? Awake, writing. Looking forward to the rest of my life, and the person I will become. Imperfect, strange, possibly very annoying. But….somebody out there is waiting to love me. Events are waiting for me to get there. Life–good, bad, strange, wonderful, erotic, neutral–is waiting for me.


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