I just can’t do what you do.
No way I can stand in front of a camera and pose, or just talk and somehow get my message across. It’s just not me.
The way I do it is to just write my heart in words.
Then I go and read it again, just like it’s someone else and not me who is reading it. There is always something missing, and no way does the full message go through. I am just not feeling it today; I must be thinking faster than I can ever type.
So I go out in my life, suffering along the way. Pain is good. It’s inspiring. Who wants to read about someone else’s success story and boasted glories? I can feel pain and write it. It’s the pain in my heart that makes me spill it all out.
Let me write—I have said it time and time again. Well, I’m the only one stopping me.
I’ll tell you my secret; I want to have enough writings done, locked up somewhere, so when I begin to show all, I will always have a reserve of pieces, in case I get writer’s block.
So when the writer’s block does come, I’ll just pull out an old piece and there we go.
Sad as it may sound, it’s my loneliness and feeling of desolation mixed with isolation that make me write. There’s nothing extraordinary about me on any given day; I am just an independent guy trying to get by, but when I write, I am.
That is why I write about life. I write my life into being exciting. I write my way through the problems, I write my pain, and it begins to go away. I only feel accomplished when I write.
So how can I go out with my writings? They will be shared, read, scrutinized, spoken about…
Then what will happen to my little secret? What will happen to the super in me? It just fades away into nothingness. Like a moment of fame, or a moment in the limelight, it will never go back to what it was before. Then I am no more.
Do I encode all of this? Or hide it somewhere safe? Or just share it with a few? I have no idea.
For now, I’ll just write and store. Then on one moonless night, with some wine, I will go out. Reveal all. Then I am bare.
Not the perfect body to show, but it’s the real me. No lipo, no make-up, just a few plucked white hairs—or even better, I’ve cracked it; I’ll wait till all my hair is grey.
Like me or hate me, I am content with what I write: you can love it or hate it, that’s up to you. But if it wakes up something in you, something your life has masqueraded, then remember me. And most importantly, remember the real you.
Life might beat you up, but never let it suck out your soul.