I write because I want to tell myself things, and I don’t know what it is I have to tell until I’ve written it. Sometimes I surprise and please myself. But I’m scared what comes out will reveal an uninteresting, unsophisticated or unlikeable self. So, most often, I don’t write.
We are what we write. No hiding, no escape. Must now shake off my lawyer past. No more “subject to this” and “subject to that.” Stop using three words where one will do. No more hiding. But without that cloak, I am exposed. Like a peeled onion.
Like all powerful medicine writing has side effects. I started in order to understand, join dots, make sense. Clarity would have sufficed but a different imperative has thrust itself upon me. I am unblinded and yet dumbfounded, rendered silent by an uncompromising beauty. The wordless knowledge of what is real.