Ah, when I was young, words flowed out of me like water out of a faucet. I had no choice. They couldn’t be stopped. And I drank them in just as voraciously. Drank them to get drunk, intoxicated and tipsy off of their cadence. I couldn’t get enough. I had an intimate relationship with words. Words were my lover, when I had none. They were my venue to release emotion, when I lost and found loves along the way. Getting the right words, having them feel right, was everything to me. And as I’ve grown older and look at the world through my jaded, “adult” eyes, I notice that I don’t take the time to play with words anymore. Yes, it’s true that you would be hard pressed to catch me withOUT a book in my bag. But I commute, and since I cannot possibly force myself to sleep on my commute, I read. So it’s just a form of entertainment. I read the books to pass the time and that’s pretty much it. I have literally finished one book, closed it and pulled out a new one and started it in the space of the same breath. People on the train look at me like I’m crazy.
And so it’s been that I go through my day simply with the intention of getting through it. I don’t pay attention. I’m not looking for the right words. I’m not doing anything that’s not exactly the same as what I did yesterday. Until I came across these two paragraphs from Afterellen.com:
And you want to talk about terrifying? You want to talk about the scariest fucking thing anyone could ever say to you in your entire life? It’s not: I’m attracted to you. It’s not: I love you. The worst and best thing a person can ever do to you is say: The out loud dreams you dream — and the dreams you can’t even bring yourself to whisper — they can come true. You can make them come true. You’re good enough and you’re smart enough and you’re strong enough and I believe in you.
It’s not cool to dream. If you want to be cool, you’ve got to wrap everything in snark and sit around being ironic and clever and apathetic. You’ve got to mock the kind of people whose need to dream rivals their need to breathe. Because if you dream, with your voice especially, you’re going to fail. Not always, but that’s life. Everyone on top of the mountain has scars to spare. The only way to not fail is to not dream at all. And we’re so afraid of falling down in front of other people, that that’s exactly what we do.
And it was like someone had slapped me across the face, while simultaneously submerging my whole body into freezing water which had been electrified. And I’m not even sure if it was the words themselves, or what they say or even what they were written about that affected me so. They simply affected me. Hard.
These words make me want to write again. They make me want to stop and look around, and not just look, but SEE everything. They make my teenage brain want to leak out again. Because the first thing I did when I got home after reading that was to go to my den and pull out my old writing books. And I pulled out one that I thought was blank, but it turns out it may just hold one of my best pieces of writing ever. I’d really like to post it here, but I gotta run it by HH first, since it happens to outline somewhat of an intimate encounter early in our relationship. I don’t think she’ll really care, but I’d just like to ask her first. And then I have to deal with the fact that my mother will most likely read it, but I’ll have to get over that embarrassment on my own.
So I’m going to attempt to reopen my eyes. See life how I used to, before I sat at a desk all day long. In the days when I could appreciate the way my hair felt on my shoulders after a shower. When I had hair long enough to actually feel my shoulders at all!