Sifting through the thousands that remain, a discovery of emotions I’d attempted to hide in flowery words stood clear. Much of it is too personal, too deep, arrogant, manipulative, or too otherwise negatively infectious to share again. Interestingly, I didn’t see it that way in their initial publishing.
The further back I go into my writing, the more obvious pain and anger were layered but called something else. Every year seemed an attempt to rewrite emotions without acknowledging them for what they already were, so it was like having a temperature of a hundred and two degrees, not being able to eat or get out of bed, but telling everyone I wasn’t sick. It can be interesting to watch sickness unfold through your own writing.
The number of times I’ve felt to have overcome an issue is reflected through blog closures, and while I believe they all served a time, place and purpose; beginning a new one with an old story tells a truth that prior one(s) failed to admit. So I’ve taken a slightly different position in this psychological decluttering,
I don’t need to pull up floorboards just because blood bled through to the under side. My foundation is sturdy as fuck, and if I keep tearing myself apart, I’ll need to get another job to pay for where I stand. Besides, wood flooring and dried blood look awful similar to one another and feel just the same.