On days of heightened emotion... massively heightened emotion... I wonder whether writing is the best outlet.
On days when all I can do is cry and howl and rend, I wonder whether it’s fair to share my feelings... I wonder whether it’s fair to me; I wonder whether it’s fair to the present me to try to express in words what I find so consuming, and I wonder whether it’s fair to the me in the future should I ever try to remember what this was like... and I wonder whether it’s fair to you.
I wonder whether it’s fair to the work or to the memory of the feeling.
When there is an ocean of emotions, when they overwhelm me in ways that it is almost impossible to give any kind of voice to, I wonder whether it can even be done... I wonder whether words come close to being nearly enough to convey what it is I’m feeling or how or why.
It can’t be done... I know that it can’t, and I’m bereft all over again.
It might be true, for me at least, that not all feelings are for sharing, but it shouldn’t be true that I don’t have the words to express myself.
This isn’t fiction, though.
Fiction is so much more clearcut, so much neater. Fiction has to make sense. This doesn’t.
This accumulation, this history, this reaction, this utter grief doesn’t drive a story, doesn’t activate a plot, doesn’t describe a character... it just is.
And this is my pain, today.
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