This week marks 5 years since I sold my house and moved to my own flat, to officially begin what would be the next chapter in my story.
During these intervening years, I completed a master’s degree; finalized my divorce; learnt a new meaning of love; added a few significant friends; drifted from others that didn’t quite fit anymore; travelled on three continents, to myriad countries and experienced new worlds; got laid off; found a new job in a company that uses technology to improve peoples’ lives; climbed mountains; saw a ghost pipefish; paid 60 mortgage payments myself; spent holidays alone; ran three road races; experienced the best birthday of my adult life; screamed and cried and spoke from my heart; had great sex; had mediocre sex; been abstinent; started a blog; took thousands of photos. I wrote a book.
I write; pretty much every day. I write to release the shitstorm of words in my head. I write to explain what goes on in my heart. I write to make some semblance of order of my dreams. I write to make sense of the jumble of ideas. I write to figure out what to do or say or make or try next.
Some days, the heart words and the head words jockey for first position. It is on these days that I should very much heed my inner barometer, my inner jumping-up-and-down-guy, waving his hands, trying to tell me to just SHUT THE F*CK UP. That inner guy says, DO NOT SEND THE EMAIL. AND FOR f*ck sake DO NOT LET THE WORDS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH.
So of course, the words get put on paper to try to explain the head and the heart and their perpetual duel; more words, later released from the keyboard, then mouth, in order to explain the between-the-lines meaning of the written words. Neither of which do much beyond muck up an already feet-on-eggshell-esque day, weekend or week.
We say “put on paper” as if invisible ink could or would dry up our electronic words or that which their unintended implication, sting, obfuscation or misalignment(s) have wreaked.
And then we finally shut up — the mouth, the fingers on keyboard, the pen on paper — only to bottle up what Might Come Out if we dare ever open our lips to speak again. Here, in the Brain, during the quiet, the words begin to pile up again, emotionally-charged adjectives and nouns and Pronouns. Many exclamation points and perhaps even more question marks.
I have learnt over the past few years that this is normal. That we of introverted constitution have these internal cacophonies of thought and words, these out-of-tune 6000-piece orchestras (accentuated by flute and tuba duets, par example) blaring their discordant tirades on a near-consistent basis in our minds. Small, yet weighty, bits are let out to play each day; the rest of the words kept in check for future use…
[cross-posted to my Medium page. Check that out here]