If I told you all of my secrets, would you leave me?
What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart?”
~ Virginia Woolf, from Night and Day
There are hurricanes inside my head every night. If you knock on my broken window and see the unmasked version of me, I’m not sure if you still believe in who I am, nor if I can give you an explanation.
I told you how I love the sun, the green forest with its singing birds, and our small cottage that will soon built behind that small lake. But Dear, I fear how the sun burns my skin and the little worms that could hide under my shirt. I rather hide inside my blanket and sleep for eternity if I could.
I told you how I swim through a thousand stories every day and night, how you adore my scattered paper room wall filled with quotes from classic authors I claimed to know.
But I never read them, actually.
I never really dreamt of living in solitude with a small house in this kind of world.
And as if wanting to fight my confession, you’ll ask my mother to tell you about me, but all she’ll say is nothing, and “it’s been years since we last talked.”
If I told you all these ugly secrets someday, would you leave me?
ps: Damn, it's getting harder to write. I hardly know what I’m feeling these days. Like a Friday cry routine, most often sadness just comes over me without any fresh reason. I sleep longer than I need to, and I’m losing focus in everything I do. It’s like I’m a writer with no stories to tell, but God, my heart is aching, my fingers are itching, yet somehow I just refuse to pour water into words.
