Maybe I’ve not thought the answer through, because if I write it out as it comes to me, its truth feels somewhat false, and therefore would reveal that I was lying to myself or attempting to lie to you, the reader.
I don’t mind the words being read, but if my mind and heart were newspapers, I wouldn’t want them to be delivered to people’s doorsteps. Does that even make sense?
The thing about newspapers is you kind of know what’s gonna be included. With me you don’t or maybe you do, but if so, maybe that’s also a source of discomfort I’m struggling against.
What I write can’t be limited to tags nor expanded by subscriptions, and I’d prefer to be the random ass magazine you see on the rack on your way outside of the grocery store you had no intention of reading until you saw the photo and picked it up intrigued. I’d love to leave you with a new thought, a new feeling, a new something that leads you to feel more hope, more love, or less alone in the sorrows of your own life journey. But I’d want to be put back on the shelf at the end, because really, I’m not expressing anything not already expressed elsewhere by someone else. I’m just a moment, and only in rare occasions have I wished to be more.
Feelings… Nothing more than feelings…