There were fewer entries than I had thought, but the effect had been monumental just the same.
My first foray into self-expression, and I had relived every moment, calling up old hidden visions of life at an age most forget to remember.
Why had I done this? Why do I continue to put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, and try to impress the innnately inward impressions? The complements and criticism of those that cared was only secondary, my own pandering for attention and acceptance.
A lilting song, the bloom of scent, or the emotional trouncing of unrealized vision, these all welled up in a single moment of dawning realization. No words could explain them, no painting could map them, no song could carry another on the same journey. But I expressed them in my own way a little series of theatrics in many acts. The stream of tears, the echoed laughter from years ago, the shriek of rebellious denial of tyrranical half-living. The flood gates were open, and I was along for the ride, naked and uncaring for all the world.
My only method of modulation for what overflowed in my soul, was the utterly obtuse shuddering of emotive response. I couldn’t contain it, yet I couldn’t focus it either. In my half-hearted attempts to do so, I had written the items in this little forgotten green book, and in threadbare notebooks, and finally, here, in a collection of electrical impulses on the wire, trying to bring my world into focus for your wonderment, and again, my future retrospection.
The words were nothing, nothing but scratches on paper written by a 3 year-old, but the vision was shared, and the soulful fireworks display was me, the real, unadulterated, Honest-to-God, unmasked me.
I had changed in the duration of the quiet unnoticed ticking of years, but not in ways that truly matter. My ability to slam together partially intelligible words into poorly organized sentence fragments has improved, at least to a degree. Even my ability to reveal what I feel, what I experience deep to the core, had matured, but this isn’t me, only my abilities, my extensions of my self.
The real me, the one that I hide behind curtains from others, and cover in masks, and contain and control to the point of depressive inhumanity, I finally realized was my definition. We had always been, and always would be the same creature, the same spirit.
For once, I remembered what it felt like, and I felt it again. I felt real, I felt alive and human and good. It was as though I had been living in a plastic bag, shrouding my vision and muffling the world around me to something I could sip in small doses, even at the expense of sensation. Like drinking from a fire house, I had again allowed myself to be overcome by it, letting it drown me in its wake. I had come careening down the waterfall of being and doggie-paddled in the pool below, waiting to be carried to the ocean of enlightenment that lies beyond, for whatever awaits.
But calm or rapid, sink or swim, I am, again, diving in.
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