Do you ever feel the words gathering in your veins, clumping together to form sentences, building momentum, bubbling, threatening to spill over?
I feel it sometimes, and it’s those times that I resent my life for intruding on my ability to get the words down. Projects, phone calls, worries, laundry, obligations, things that should have been done, could have been done. They all conspire to keep from my date with the words. But without the living of life, what would the words be? Would they be worth writing, worth reading?
I don’t know.
I doubt it.
There is something sacred about truth, about real life. I live so much of my life in my own head, thinking, processing, analyzing, worrying – that I sometimes forget the necessity of getting out of my head, away from myself, and experiencing other people, other perspectives.
But I have learned that when I do get up and out, people say things to me that I need to hear. They listen to things I need to say. They remind me about my iron will, they tell me how they see me in their dreams. They ask about my scars, they tell me about theirs. It’s a moment you can’t explain, when someone tells you the truth of who they are, the story of how they got there. You can’t bottle it, you can’t plan it, you can’t demand it. When it happens naturally and organically it’s nothing less than a communion of souls.
And you have to come out of your head, out of your house, for that.
And you have to make yourself vulnerable, to have a sacred moment with someone else. You have to trust, you have to open up and take the risk and accept the responsibility of being hurt.
And that…that is so hard for me.
But if I don’t, if I can’t open up and be vulnerable and get out of my head and into someone else’s head, if I can’t let anyone in, if I can’t take the risk, then I don’t deserve the reward.
I don’t deserve the words.