Of Love and Grief

      I look back at earlier drafts of this piece: I see myself sitting down time and time again, refining the ideas, trying to find the right words, the best expressions or simply the easiest way for me to explain what runs through my head. Time and time again, I fail to capture what I want to say with words, how can a person explain what runs through their head in a way that satisfies them, when even they don't know what is going on up there most of the time?

I see parts of what I want to say, and I bring together something that resembles a text. It does not satisfy the thing inside that yearns to be a writer, but it does scratch the itch for a while. It sedates that thing for a little time, gives me time to breath, before I start drowning in words again.

"I didn't know how to mourn the people I loved."

"I was sad, but where was the proof? Where were the tears?"

Lines I pick and choose, from here and there, because I can't say the rest, because to be seen is too much work. Would regret and guilt seep into me next? The moment I hit the "Publish" button? I don't know, I guess we'll see.

It was supposed to be a moving piece of literature. You were supposed to read this and weep, or maybe feel a little ache in your heart. But I now realize that I can't share that part of myself yet, maybe I'll be ready to show that vulnerable side later on. For now, I will have to settle with showing you a tiny glimpse at my brain. 

Even these few lines are hard to put here. Sharing my writing is scary, but nothing comes from being unafraid all the time.