When I have emotions that need to come out but can’t, things like this happen:
I’ve been told males are visual creatures
So we’re encouraged to wear tight clothes or “clothes that show our curves”
But I don’t like my body and I’ll be damned if I give in to your pressure.
Again.
See I’d love to know where that was going, because it clearly isn’t finished. I’d love to watch my fingers write out more of my feelings, see my heart speak through the ink. Writing has become a way for me to hear from myself.
Let me explain.
I’ve become more and more aware of things I can’t say lately. Because lets face it, when people ask how you are they’re not asking what your heart is dealing with that morning. Or what things in your past followed you to work. People see your backpack and think that’s the only weight that you’re carrying, but we all know that everyone is carrying more. And that everyday it’s a fight to give it up [for some of us that is.] With losing the freedom bit by bit to say what’s on my heart, my inner voice has become quieter. It comes out in writing though, and because of that:
I’ve started thinking that maybe if I could keep writing I’d finally come to understand why I stay awake at night feeling like I’m missing something. Whatever it is it’s locked inside me with bars created by my own fear, because maybe whatever is in there and I suspect it’s the real me, is a pretty scary thing. The real me is scary in her absolute realness, her pure love, and her lack of fear.
I’ve been told males are visual creatures
So we’re encouraged to wear tight clothes or “clothes that show our curves”
But I don’t like my body and I’ll be damned if I give in to your pressure.
Again.
See I’d love to know where that was going, because it clearly isn’t finished. I’d love to watch my fingers write out more of my feelings, see my heart speak through the ink. Writing has become a way for me to hear from myself.
Let me explain.
I’ve become more and more aware of things I can’t say lately. Because lets face it, when people ask how you are they’re not asking what your heart is dealing with that morning. Or what things in your past followed you to work. People see your backpack and think that’s the only weight that you’re carrying, but we all know that everyone is carrying more. And that everyday it’s a fight to give it up [for some of us that is.] With losing the freedom bit by bit to say what’s on my heart, my inner voice has become quieter. It comes out in writing though, and because of that:
I’ve started thinking that maybe if I could keep writing I’d finally come to understand why I stay awake at night feeling like I’m missing something. Whatever it is it’s locked inside me with bars created by my own fear, because maybe whatever is in there and I suspect it’s the real me, is a pretty scary thing. The real me is scary in her absolute realness, her pure love, and her lack of fear.
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