Her words chase each other across the screen with a competitve fervor. She gives her fingers a pep talk and powers them over the keyboard - DON'T STOP, DON'T STOP - it hurts! - DON'T STOP.
When I read her journal it's like looking down into a deep pot of chicken dumplings, her mind stewing and bubbling and fire hot. You can't really get closer than that. She won't let you and you'd burn yourself anyway. Peek inside. That's it. We get to peek.
Her words run effortlessly. There is no over-thinking - WHAT IF HE READS THIS? - there is just gold truth.
She doesn't write for anyone but herself. It's a quality like cashmere, stands on its own, needs no validation, knows there is nothing like it. Knows proudly that it is a quality that you can't help but admire. She writes - we admire - she doesn't give a damn.
Freedom. Maybe something I forfeited along the way while looking for security and love and stability. I peck out phrases more carefully, choosing my words - since when did I ever choose my words? - more aware of his feelings than mine, of their morals than mine.
Sometimes I feel my feelings rally my brain, my fingers, my gut and they drive me to my journal, to the computer, to the telephone... but my mind is a brilliant source of overriding control... and I put them all down. All blood has thinned to ink as my innermost genius channels through my body, words shoving thoughts from limb to organ to vein til my smiles crack and tears flow and loneliness is welcome.
But I do not let them out. Not anymore. Not anymore.
Vulnerability has become alone time.
But the world sees hers and cherishes it. She beckons me.
