The thought of returning to writing terrifies the shit out of me. Almost half as much as writing itself terrifies the shit out of me.
Honestly, this all blossomed so serendipitously- my heart so desperately wishing to be amalgamated with an outlet again, coinciding with Diary of Femme being conceived. I was in crisis for a couple of years, truly fearful of being seen, even by my own eyes in mirrored surfaces. In this way, it has become an awfully terrifying world, reflections of myself cast in places I didn’t expect them to be and feeling eyes grazing my skin more ferociously than ever.
I’m not scared of the same things I used to be though. I’ve sought to eliminate my fears one by one, only to realise that there is an endless amount of things to be brave against. I have no big plans as to where I want to head with any of this really, but I have a vehicle again, and what feels like an inexhaustible tank. It’s strange to feel such love when your insides have felt like a wasteland for a small while; tiny lights dancing where your stomach felt empty; barking voices silencing themselves for the gentle blue of clarity. I can’t help but smile. I’ve been growing incredible amounts in comparably tiny timeframes, and I think sometimes we forget how hardwired we all are for adaptation.
The thought of people receiving my writing is less daunting than it ever was. I don’t think I mind anymore who is reading, or if you don’t like what I have to say. To be felt and held in this way, without the weight of my feet, is the pinnacle of my existence. I hope to topple myself many times over, knowing that people tend to find exactly what they are looking for. I personally am no longer concerned with the practice of festering stale thoughts and memories. Those glasses, like many others, simply don’t suit me- I’ve always found it hard to concentrate whilst driving with any glasses on at all.
Amongst the deliciousness of other young women speaking their innards, I am simply making it clear to myself how selfishly I’m allowed to reclaim my authorship. Perhaps in revealing my weaknesses, someone else can understand where their strengths are, or where the path grows wiry. Now that I can peel it all back for you, the sun can work as an antiseptic in the places my hands can’t quite reach. This time around though, there is an acceptance that I can’t give away everything. But I’ll certainly give all that I can afford to, with the hopes that it is enough.