There's something about writing that feels like looking in a mirror. I say this because of the length of time that I have spent not writing. I'm not sure why I ever stopped when it is my sanity, my friend. When nobody seems to understand my thoughts or when I'm too embarrassed to even explain them, the paper swallows up my every word and then staples its lips together.
Reading the paper afterwards is one way of looking at myself, a curious self-analysis. This is especially true on Everything2 when I need to really stop and think about what I'm saying and how I'm saying it. You'll never know the number of scratchpads that I've had to delete upon realizing they were defensive, negative, full of self-pity and self-degradation. I don't want people seeing that, and nobody wants to look at it. What the hell was I doing all of these years, sitting paralyzed with a pen in hand, sitting at a desk with blank lined paper staring back at me? Why did I start so many private online blogs, only to abandon them after a couple of entries, forgetting the password, deciding that it didn't matter? I was doing myself a disservice. Now that I have started to write again (however rusty my skills may be), I feel as though I have bought a full-length mirror for the first time in years and am now looking into it with horror, seeing that my eyebrows have grown together and I'm wearing clothes that don't fit. Other people may overlook those things but I sure as hell can't.
The reflection never lies, so long as the mirror is true. The truth can also really hurt, but it is also healing, and all of that crap. I'm growing tired of myself and the melodramatic bullshit that pours itself through my fingertips. It's not easy to admit that life isn't going your way, and even if what you want seems unrealistic and impossible, you still want it anyway. And there's a child inside that wants to be held and just curl up into a ball sometimes because all of its favourite toys have been taken away and it doesn't understand why. It's very sad and everything, but maybe that kid would be happier if she yells and screams and beats the shit out of whatever asshole took away her fun (violence as a last resort, of course). Maybe it's not so unrealistic and impossible to get what you want after all. Tired and defeated from climbing over so many walls that are in the way, you look over and see a pathway and a door that leads you closer to your dream without working yourself so hard and you feel a bit stupid, but relieved, very relieved.
It's 1:39am and my cat is stretched out on top of the mattress leaning against the wall. We're getting rid of the old mattress but we haven't decided exactly where to put it yet, so it's taking up space and providing the cats with a temporary toy. They love to be up high, probably so they can look down upon us. Cats are so different from dogs. The computer is making a humming noise, the clacking of keyboard keys being pressed in rapid succession helping to fill the quiet. It's dark outside; I can't see the moon from here. It occurs to me at this moment that my night-time dreams came back to me not that long after I began writing again. I believe there is a connection, and I don't care to question it in the way that I normally would. Everything happens for a reason.