Writing from the heart. Getting into those emotions with the intent to expose them is never as easy as it seems. Confrontation that exists between the cast your cares to the wind sensation, against those that make up reason, logic and common sense wage war.
The sense of baring ones inner being kept so well disguised demands removing that mask. Coming into that discomfort zone so carefully avoided feels like playing Russian roulette. Assurances of acceptance afterwards is not guaranteed.
Only the fearless need ever attempt showing true feelings. None indulge this on any regular basis. Tears are often shed to raise up that curtain of defense. Postponing what, for any chance of recovery, is sincerely required.
Yet release and lifted burden are priceless. Relief rushes in to take the place of futile attempts at ignoring truth. A personal prison where efforts to avoid freedom were the norm. Out of which songs, poems and novels are born.
Far easier is writing with fantasy in mind, where truth never has to be faced, and endings can be dark, light, or somewhere in between. Journeys are adventurous, exciting, even perilous, when not your own.
Even you, or I, create characters of escape replacing heroes who endure. Attempting to squeeze out words capable of drawing you into this mindset are among the most difficult. Simple, easy phrases resist acceptance while those which create more anxiety are favored.
The “why” almost demands an answer even knowing that being successful screams defeat. Where do you go when that time arrives? Rehearsal of well known oft repeated words hardly filled with sincerity form themselves for rebuttal.
So let’s go to the heart of the matter. Is hope seen to bypass this, these painful moments? Are delusions in store for those who try? How can this be ignored when it is such an integral occurrence in life?
I’m digging deep here. The attempt at relating to situations which are none of my making nor my concern. Still sensing the raw, ragged emotions that rise above the surface, revealing those infected, festering wounds forces acknowledgment.
Not theirs, but my own. How do I feel what is not mine to endure? With no anticipation of inviting myself to the party, I find myself a guest. That curtain of defense finds it’s way to the corners of my eyes on an all to regular basis. Why? It’s not my scenario, so how do my emotions get cranked up?
Is this what’s called empathy, sympathy, or entropy? Maybe dopy, however the fact remains along with the moisture from my eyes. In truth, for a man to have any feelings other than anger or something related to romance, is rare. That would be me. The rare part of course.
Showing those moments when that of vulnerability is most visible are frequent, which has the tendency to make others uncomfortable because they are unable to relate.
Yet there are as may spaces where none of this is evident, usually occurring behind the steering wheel.
