To whom do I write?
Myself? I like to think so.
The line blurred when I opened my posts.
When I browse Xanga (rarely)
I see screaming out at me from all sides:
“I hope you like my site!!”
and I think…. who the hell cares?
I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of my site.
It’s for me. Nobody else matters.
And yet, I try to make it aesthetically pleasing.
Is that for my own eyes or for yours?
Again, I like to think it’s for me.
And it’s not like I’m writing things
that I’m dying for the world to know.
It is in fact, private things.
Sometimes the mundane, but sometimes soul-baring.
And those things are so close to my heart,
so fragile, and I put them out there,
out here where anyone can read them.
Yes, some things are too private, and I keep them locked away,
but most of my journal entries are open to see.
And here is the disconcerting, yet beautiful part:
I see you baring your soul too, and its really amazing,
and I wonder how we (as a people, a generation or two, a culture)
have arrived at a place in which we are okay showing
our most tender and vulnerable inner dramas and secrets
to perfect strangers, or to our friends and families,
without even a “FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE” sign
on the door or the outside of the box.
I open my own journal and look to see if I have comments,
if anyone had something to say… hopefully reflecting my entry,
words to bring insight into my mind or yours.
I look forward with eager anticipation each weekday
to read what you have to say,
my newfound friends aquaintances (… what are you to me?)
and when there is nothing new that you have revealed,
I can feel the corners of my mouth turning down in disappointment.
So now to whom am I writing?
To those who are sharing their lives at this point in time,
this brief glimpse into their hearts and the magical connections
that their brains are making every second upon second upon second?
(albeit not purposely with me per se.)
Or to myself for introspection and catharsis and growth
and to see where I’ve come from and to where I am going?
The things I write are many times not things
I would share with my husband, he who should be the bearer,
if anyone should be, of my secrets and longings
and meandering thoughts about the world.
He doesn’t think like I do. He is a concrete thinker.
His world does not include faeries swimming in his veins
or demons nibbling on his toes to the bones inside.