As a writer, I have permission to be creatively eccentric. Or maybe I choose to believe I do so I can make the words live longer to keep me alive.
Most days are a struggle when it comes to comfortably acknowledging who I truly am. I mostly exist in a warped dimension of reality and a very precise construct of my imagination.
In real life — I am a reluctant forty-something who is still grappling with the trappings of a twenty-something.
In the world I’ve created — I am completely different.
I am a much better version of myself — and even though I’ve devised ways to make her not so perfect — those imperfections are still easier to accommodate.
When I write — I shut the world out and disappear into the rhythm that consumes me.
Every beat has to be condoned and furnished for my benefit — before its allowed to perform for unsuspecting listeners.
I take this risk because it’s all I have to give. And while I relish the thought of being able to expose myself in ways that prove my vulnerability — I also have to bear the consequences of my confessions.
If I still wonder who the fuck I am — then I must understand why I seem like a stranger to the ones who swore they knew me.
When the year began — I reconnected with a childhood friend who I am certain will read this because I can almost swear to God that she constantly stalks my profile.
Despite being disgusted by most of the stuff I write.
Earlier on we had a major disagreement that lasted for months. New Year’s Day arrived — and we decided to start over.
During our reconciliation, she admitted Googling me and finding my Medium page. She was fascinated by how good of a writer I was.
But the evidence of this convinced her of the fact that she had no idea who I was.
She wanted to know if I had purposely shielded her from the truth.
We never lie about what we don’t know. We always try to assure the ones who matter that we are doing a lot better than we really are.
It’s easier and cleaner that way.
Life isn’t supposed to be complicated all the time and when it is — there is nothing else to do but act your way out of it.
I told my friend who is now someone I don’t speak to much — that most of what she read wasn’t based on truth.
I explained that as with most writers — I have a tendency to rely on the aid of fiction.
That was a lie. It is a lie. And if she’s reading this — I hope she can find peace in the knowledge that I am still this person she never knew.
I also hope she can understand that not knowing me shouldn’t be a cause for alarm. It’s not a conspiracy.
I have split myself into so many pieces that recovering them all would be an impossible task.
But as I gather what can be saved — the mirrored surfaces never fail to capture the fundamental aspect of things.
I somehow manage to divulge the brutality of my disposition — no matter how high the stakes.
It gets me into trouble and leads to a divorce from family and friends — which as I get older seems to be a normal shift in the spectrum of relationships.
But when I find myself in solitude and need the familiar to embrace me — where do I go to retrieve her?
She is nowhere to be found because she never existed. I have to completely reject what built me to find her.
And like every divorce — even the most amicable parting is a sour affair.
But it has to be done in order to recover what was missing all along.
All I have to do is yearn for the need to be found.