Originally uploaded by romanlily
Lately I’ve been experiencing the urge to sit down and write. Not because I have something to say but because there are things I’m avoiding saying. I’ve had one post in particular on my mind since the start of September. To be true the post in question contains things I’ve wanted to say for a lot longer, but September 2006 seemed like an appropriate time to publish for many reasons.
I didn’t publish it however. Instead I write about everything BUT what’s really on my mind.
The problem was I am not going to enjoy actually writing this post – the bits I have written so far have had me in tears and tromping round the flat in a fit of rage for half the day. I remember one poem by Seamus Heaney where he likens writing to digging at scabs with a pen. The image stayed with me – one of the few bits of poetry that has – and digging at scabs can only be the best way to describe the process of writing this post which has been sitting in the forefront of my brain for the past five or six months.
Pulling at scabs to get underneath is never a very pleasant experience. Actually viewing what’s underneath is oftentimes even worse.
I also have to face the possibility that once I write this mythic beast of a post I will never want to write anything again. Bright Meadow will have served its purpose and we can all go back to our lives.
And let’s not forget that the end result might be absolutely pants. Meaningful to me and no one else. Not that I write expressly for my audience but, you know, it would be nice if you had fun too.
I am brought to mind of another quote. Stephen King this time:
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them – words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than life size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that. The important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dear only to have people not understanding what you said or why you almost cried when you said it”.
So why do I want to share this with you all, my anonymous and not-so-anonymous readers? Why do I struggle to put into words thoughts and feelings that perhaps should remain private? Why do I feel compelled to tell all on the Internet when I can barely tell the same details to my closest loves and family?
Because of the end of the quote I just missed off on purpose:
“That’s the worst – when the secret stays locked not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear”.
I don’t want to be secret any more. I don’t want the pain to stay buried inside. I’ve born it, lived it, hated it for a decade now and i. want. to. share.
I’m just not quite sure how long it’s going to take me to put the words into coherent form. Or how I’m going to look you all in the eye when I’m done.
I always found writing easy before. This time around I’m pulling each word from the darkness and I know the patterns they are forming on the page do not do just to what I really want to say. I’m just not that good a writer. So you’ll just have to read between the lines and be patient with me. I’ve held your attention this long. I beg your indulgence to stay around just a little bit longer. You’re reading my life here and I think it’s nearly time to tell you some of the not-so-pretty bits along with the smiles.
Because in truth it’s the crappy bits that have really made me into the Cas whose words you are reading – I’ve just chosen to only really tell you the happy stuff up till now.