Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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