emotionally-charged writing Monday… you’re welcome.

This week, as I come closer and closer to another birthday, I have decided that I want to reveal some of my most raw and open writing/ thoughts. Over the last year, I have really allowed myself to start thinking differently about the world… It’s 11 PM in Korea and I admit, Reader, I am exhausted tonight. I even considered breaking my streak and letting one more night slide by without making a post… Shame on me! I didn’t know what I should write about and I didn’t want to take the time to find something that inspired me, but then I stumbled onto something I wrote in August.

After months and months of contemplation and conversations with a few close friends, my opinions changed. And one day, while riding the city bus and taking in the world around me, I wrote some thoughts that I would like to share with you.

I admit, I am a bit shy about this sort of thing; I have written in this private, self-searching voice before, but rarely have I shared it. This is the side of me that is passionate, that wants to make an everlasting mark on the world through the written word. The obsessive, “weirdo writer” side that records things that feel powerful when they stain the page. When read aloud, I feel like my words carry a physical force. These thoughts mean something to me; they were resonant in my mind.

I struggled most of this year to find inspiration and desire to write anything at all… I wasn’t overly successful if you’re judging by my track record on this blog. But this… this was a big moment for me. It was as if something I had lost was flooding back.

These are my words in my most private moments… So, ready or not, I’m sharing them with you.

August 16, 2014

I have a story. It rattles in my chest and beats to a rhythm I wrote with my own heart. For a long time, the rhythm had faded. I lost my song and I stopped breathing in the smell of sweet pages. 

And then. Suddenly. It crept back into my glass house while I slumbered there. 

I had forgotten the beat, that song. I had forgotten the flavor of the pages – the minty ash taste that overpowered my senses. I had forgotten the rushing feeling of my own story pouring out from my fingertips, staining the pages.  

The epic and poetic beating of my own vessel in my chest. The ink that rushes through my veins, giving life to the words I breathed.  

But something is different in me, inside the house. The glass suddenly seems wrong. I feel trapped and suffocated in my own hidden place. 

And so I scream and begin to feel cracks in that glass house that I built. It is crumbling around me, shards piercing my skin. I raise my hands, littered with old paper-cuts to protect my face. I begin to cry out louder, louder still. The story is reawakening inside me, desperate to be told. And as suddenly as it began, the echo rings out through my glass house. The walls shatter around me and I know that house is gone. 

No longer will I look through those tinted glass walls, unaware of the world that surrounds me. No longer will I remain silent, terrified of destroying the dwelling so accepted by those I sought to please. 

I am my own.

I am a woman of my own making. I don’t need you or your approval. My icy blue eyes are flying open and stare off into the distance, now unhindered by the distortion of the glass.

I can see me. The real me. And so can you.

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