This is what is must be like to be a real writer. Not that I would ever propose to be one. Drawn to a screen that gives you no clues on how to begin, or why you're even here. I can't even tell you why I'm back, after such an absence. I think I left us with plans to go overseas, a passion for my job, and an interest in a certain 21 year old.
Nothing's really changed. I went over seas. It was all the things I thought travelling would be. And yet somehow not worth writing about. No words could encapsulate the emotional highs and lows that trip gave me. It gave me the chance to see someone I missed so dearly, and at the same time remind me how much more missing of them I had to do. It gave me one last hurrah with someone who would never appreciate it. And it showed me that I could miss other people in a way I thought I would never feel again.
I returned to the excitement of a new partner, but that excitement dwindled as we began to confuse things with ambiguous words like love. I sat back and watched painfully as though I was starring in one of those movies where the main character continues to repeatedly stick their foot in it. You know the ones, I think they're supposed to be comedies, but I'm always so embarrassed for the character I can't bring myself to laugh. I watched as the events of life somehow forced me to show my real self to the world. To bear my soul. And to be looked at like the monster I really am.
I watched as my daughter, my sanity, and my passion for life, slowly slipped away. And while I still hold true that my job and my now 22 year old are some of the rare things to look forward to in life, I feel them slipping away also. They have seen me for who I really am and they show no sign of slowing to help me regain my mask. Meanwhile I lay paralysed. Watching the world whiz by.
And then I am reminded of a place where I had built a character for myself. A place I could create my own name, my own face and maybe, by someone, be heard. And so I return to Choofa. A scared little girl who dared to be who she wanted to be, and found happiness in the world of make believe. I hope she'll accept me back. Because I'm running out of places to exist.
I'm glad you've returned to blogging Brook, but I'm a little troubled by this post. Whatever monstrous acts you are regretting, I think you'll find that given a bit of time, most people tend to be quite forgiving. That goes especially for those close to you, who, be assured, all care about you deeply. I care about you too Brook, even though I am a comparative stranger. If you ever need someone to talk to, or vent at, via any medium you choose, I offer myself as a receptive sounding board. It may help that I am far from the source of your angst.
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