Here I am again being a writer who doesn’t write. Picking up the pen and then dropping it before its energy singes my fingers. Picking up the pen and tapping the unusable end on the paper, because that’s safe enough.
There are words in my head, mind you. Always so many words. Some even congregate enough to create full thoughts. They swirl around my brain like the laundry I decide should be done before putting them down on paper.
These swirling thoughts feel dangerous. One day it’s a release to let it out on paper, but not today. Not now, have you seen what’s going on out there?
I have, and I have these hot, searing thoughts about it all, because how can you not? But write it down? I don’t know. I don’t know if it will be healing. I don’t know if it will be helpful. I don’t know if these thoughts are safe out there.
But my writing is always me. It’s always the most me I can present to people. So, if these thoughts aren’t safe, perhaps it’s just once again the fear that it’s not safe to be me.
Still not safe. Some days I warrior forward, today, I hide and peak out wondering when.
Shut up little girl, no one wants to hear that. Let the other women warrior on, you’re not up to it. Let the other women test the waters, it’s not safe. It’s not safe out there yet.
Out there is still not ready. Or I’m not ready for out there.