Jinked

I’ve been forcing myself to write lately. Anything. It’s mostly been my pen in a paper journal, but there have been scraps of other thought, other stories. I thought perhaps writing in my blog would count for something, because I really do want it to count for something. The voice in the back of my head says so, and it’s my own.

It’s been all for naught, really.

Last week I was walking to the train. It was a gray day, cold, and I wrapped myself up in a scarf and heavy coat before leaving my apartment that morning. I tend to focus on the cars parked on the street when walking. I don’t really know why. Sometimes I look at the brownstones, but mostly it’s the cars. All the out-of-state plates. And I have to wonder where these people have come from, at what points in their lives, and why are they’re living in Chicago? What brought them all here? Are their lives as different as mine is now?

When I write I’m rehashing my past in one way or another, for good, for bad, and I tend to have only written in my life when I’ve been lonely. When I felt isolated and exiled from the rest of reality. When I didn’t feel real. When fiction was better and made more sense than all this.

I understand that many writers do not pull their stories into existence like this, but I always have. Everything I write is in an effort to make sense of myself in a crazily-spinning world. I am in every character. I am in every plot. Every world, every voice, every gust of wind blowing through the pages. A pen in my hand is like a weapon, and for too long I have been afraid to put it down.

I wrote to vicariously experience life because it was safe and didn’t hurt, and never would my stories leave me. I was the one playing god; the story stopped when I said so. But now…

Now I’m experiencing life on my own, letting things fall where they would like to fall and making the most of them. It’s my risk and my trust and me who is opening a heart that has long-been closed. Maybe you have noticed a difference. Maybe not. And maybe it’s not a big deal at all.

I haven’t been writing, and instead of feeling guilty about it I’ve decided to embrace it, even if only for a little while.

I’m creating more stories than ever. The only difference is that these stories are told with my eyes, my tongue. My hips, lips, and smile. I don’t need to record the details; you don’t need to know the day. I enjoy the moment and then the fleeting piece afterwards, spinning into another story that is waiting to be experienced.

Living in my head, no. Not now, which makes me feel so out of touch with my friends who write, but I’m not lonely. I severed the need. I’m living my stories, not writing them.

I should not feel guilty.