I’m running again. Maybe I always have been running. From people. Thoughts. Situations. And sometimes even from writing. As if keeping the words spinning in my head makes them less real, less of this world – than they are when they’re thought fragments that can be dismissed or run over or just plain overrun.
And even in this moment the words run from my hand. Not allowing themselves to be put to paper. Looking for a way to romanticise this process.
I imagine that my pen is a mighty sword. And I can see it tearing me open and instead of my blood a jumble of words, letters, phrases drip from my arm. Instead of red I bleed blue like the ink of this pen. And maybe someone else can collect what’s coming out and make sense of it. Arrange it into a story with a beginning, middle, and ending.
Because my eyes are too blurry and my brain is too muddled. Unsure of what’s of importance. Unsure of what’s true. Or real. Unsure of what’s happened when. And unsure of what holds meaning. Unsure of what is safe to think let alone speak. Unsure of which characteristics have been worn like layers of protection – and just who they are protecting.
I’ve paraded around in camouflage and at other times I laid bare in my vulnerability. And neither choice brought me safety.
And for a long time I felt like I could craft the character I wanted people to see but the complexities and responsibilities and uncertainties have taken over to create a character for me.
Sometimes it was the crashing of storm powered waves, but mostly just the erosion of the trickling stream. I’ve been weathered by the years. Shaped into something I never wanted or chose to be.
And I wonder if I’m rooted so deeply into the ground that nobody will ever see what’s underneath.