What I Don't Write About ...
Funny, huh? The world is full of topics. Everything is a potential topic. It all depends on how you look at everything.
Some things are fleeting. Some things are fixtures. Some things nudge me, some things nag.
And some things are so enormous, so far-reaching, so transmutable, I don't write about them. Some things are too big for this blog. Too important.
And yet, it's those things that direct my days, consume my thoughts, and so, as this blog is an extention of myself, a place where I come to put down my musings, to work out the issues in my life, this would seem to be the forum.
I wrote a lot about G, after all. Though I didn't delve into all the details. So maybe that's the nature of this place. Maybe there are limits to what bloggers are willing to share with the anonymous universe. Well, I'm not anonymous. But I put my thoughts down for the world to read, and then I find myself holding back.
Still, this one seems to be forcing its way to the surface.
It's like one night, years ago, at a time when I had been holding so many things inside, and that night, I started crying and couldn't stop. I was crawling into bed and just started sobbing. As though the universe said, "OK, you've been trying to be strong for too long. But you're going to deal with this. Right now."
You'd think I'd be more proactive. But I am an expert procrastinator. I'll put things off until I absolutely have to deal with them, and then I kick myself into gear. Maybe that's why I did so well at a newspaper: Every day was a deadline. There was no time to dawdle. Well, no. Even then, I'd push tasks off. When I had an occational story to write, I'd invariably write it the night before it was due. Just like college. Just like high school. Oh, the nights I stayed up, clacking away, or typing first thing in the morning, before heading off to school.
I do good work under pressure. Maybe that's why I haven't dealt with the issue at hand. There's been no deadline. No ramifications for not speaking my heart and mind, other than my own endless strife.
Am I a masochist? Or just a coward? Or a little of both?