A failure of words

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journal_txI’m generally a pretty open person.

I like to live my life out loud.

There is a lot of freedom in sharing yourself and your experiences with other people. In fact, it’s highly recommended as a type of therapy.

Sometimes, though, we go through these particular cycles in life where you have to draw back into yourself because of social mores, laws, the balance of risks and rewards for a particular action. 

I have written so much in my head, but I cannot write it into words on a screen, for various reasons, and it’s uncomfortable, like an ill-fitting dress shirt when you’re attending church for the first time in many years.

There is nothing as unpleasant as not being able to share the whole thought, to be kept in check by a particular obstacle to the point of only half realizing your own conclusion to things.

I’m walking through one of those time periods right now, and I can see the impact it has taken on my ability to process my own thoughts internally as well as externally.

My system wants to shut down and become uncommunicative.

The dad who comes home and retires to an easy chair and merely nods at the kids who are spilling information on him like so many cracker crumbs, which are dusted off into the sides of the chair.

The husband who smiles and half listens to his wife’s work problems, while still reflecting on his own.

The friend who doesn’t call or write.

And yet, I miss the way the cursor gives life to my worst fears and greatest triumphs, the way it reveals things to me as they form, letter by letter.

The power in writing something strong, then walking it back, letter by letter, before letting it explode in a different combination of letters born of seeing these small lines on a white background.

Writing about your experiences is the greatest way to understand what those experiences mean to you. When you live in your head for too long, everything becomes internal to the point of illusion.

Writing about it makes it real. For yourself, for others.

Some day, I will write about this, not as a memoir but as a screen play of the dialogue going on in my head.

Then you may understand it all.

But better than all of that, I may understand it all.

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