Half done

I haven’t written anything in a while but I guess you can probably tell that by now. For weeks in end, I’d been staring at the same dent in my ceiling waiting for some semblance of inspiration to hit me. After all that’s how I cope isn’t it? Writing, it seemed, was my life line. The one thing that never left my side or slapped my face. It is the one thing in the whole world that I could trust as much as divinity. There is no greater kingdom than that of one’s mind. Or at least that’s what I used to think until this feeling of disembodied realism set into my mind.

My have drifted over these keys for a hundred times in the last eight weeks. This resulted in many half written blogs, diary entries and things too true to my own mind that I took license to hide them from the world but keep them for myself. I remembered staring at them and remembering the tones of disappointment filtering through the voices loved ones. They wanted me to take down the blog. I think the worst part of it was the fact that I really didn’t think it was so bad that I should take down the blog. Or maybe it was the fact that many things in this blog are heavily sugar coated. Maybe it was the idea that all of the bad things I had written here are the truth. Or maybe it was the fact that no matter how often I tried to tell them the truth, I’d be forgotten. I could read the unedited versions and they would fall on deaf ears.

Some aspects are just lost in the wash. No matter what you do to be the best version of yourself you can be, there are some places and people in the world that just come up short. They won’t look at the situation as they should but sweep it under the carpet and forget about it. Too easily, the demons from the past are enabled to become living ghosts in our waking lives. Maybe, I’m just a little misunderstood.  

I tried to assess my license of integrity. Was I really helping anyone if I just put it down?  Or was I allowing my voice to be taken away? Or maybe I had considered that I would be shoving my inner demons in some corner to allow people to swallow whatever tablespooned sized image of myself that I cooked up for them. I figured that I would be playing the same game I did over and over again. No one ever asks questions. They just accept it and that’s it. My writing was naked or at the very least as naked as I would allow myself to ever be.

I found some peace in writing and maybe it is the only peace I would ever know.