I want to be found.
I am not looking to be discovered as a writer. I no longer have delusions of grandeur on my mediocre talent of throwing cold words on a dead page, hoping someone elicits an emotional response to my work.
I am here because I can no longer hide. Yet I’m not ready to stand and declare myself. There is a plethora of internal struggle; of pain, joy, humor, sadness and regret and I can no longer contain my emotions in the strict confines of my mind. But–and there is no eloquent way to describe this–I am so damn bad at vocalizing anything I feel. Why? I am terrified of my own weakness. I fear vulnerability more than any physical pain.
But I am tired. Such anxieties have been overturned in favor of the explosion that has been years in the making. The strength of my defenses have not wavered; they are demolished. I am left with the rubble.
But as Persain poet Rumi once said, “Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.”
I think… I hope… I pray… that he is right.