Flipping open the mind and giving off my insides onto paper, in word and in thought and in release, is not the easiest task.
By far the most inhibiting factor is reluctance to trust the soul. I fear the perceived scorn of others, and the perceived retribution of embarrassment at what one feels and what one has to say and how one says it is powerful and real.
I suspect the fear is born from my own interpretation and impressions of myself in fact, and the yearning to see other people responsible for my weakness is what drives me to imagine that the unproved lack of empathy from other souls is a fuel, if not in fact the cause, of all my ills. Being wrong is like death. Being misunderstood is inevitable. Being ignored is lonelier than being quiet. Being myself is petrifying.
In silence I comfort myself with agreement in my own opinions. No thing or one to contradict me, to judge, to disappoint. I expect the silent risk is of course that learning, sharing, challenge and potential soul meetings are neglected, missed, taken for granted, for the sake of coveting my place for brooding angst and simple inertia. Familiarity with anything can make it seem a pleasure, whether it is for good or bad.
Knowing my own sadness’s so well as to trust the comfort of their familiarity can place my heart in a mistaken haven of rotting complacence where pain becomes a sorrowful tonic and deadens the light and searching for my own happiness. Throttling and peeling away the fearful layers ingrained I intend to attempt an outpouring clear, as close to truth as I might ever imagine. That is to say, I think I might try to write down my feelings.
That is all. Indulgent? Maybe. But I force it on no-one except myself. And the reflection for me is as welcome as a friend to dinner.
