Where do words go when no one wants to hear them, should not hear them, won’t be understood even if they are made into sentences?
This blog serves me well as a landing place for words that don’t fit elsewhere, but I do edit as I write. Where do the words belong when editing would kill them and make me feel watered-down and muddy? The blog is not the place for everything. It is the place for the best things made of the best, clearest words. Present unspoken words attach themselves to real, possibly ridiculous, frightening, very jarring feelings that have no place here.
Facebook is a filtered, sanitized forum. Not there.
Journals feel like mental acts of masturbation, now. I unearthed a couple that I wish I hadn’t, from when I had learned to hide my private words for fear of having them broadcast loudly and publicly. The handwritten words on those pages made me too sad to read after so much had changed and so much has happened, and I pitied the woman who wrote them. I pitied and disliked her. She, that bewildered and angry and stupidly stoic version of me, made me angry on her behalf, but also angry at her for not doing things differently then. She was short-sighted and weak. She might be the me of today when I look back. So, now, not there.
Telephone conversations fall flat when small words mean so much. Big words don’t belong, or can’t be remembered, when the small important words are so hard to say. To say them out loud isn’t an option right now, anyway. A small person listens, always, when she is home.
My head and heart, my whole body, my everything, spills over with words that can’t be said anywhere in good form. The words I won’t say become a tight, hard mass in my throat. I push the hot sharp shape into my chest, where it tries to make me cry, then to my belly to start the process of digesting it and letting it melt away.
It’s always worked before, but I’m out of practice.