I am not good at writing on this blog. Which come to think of it is a pretty average topic for a post on my blog but here we go.
1. For a long time, I blamed the fact I couldn’t write for this on the fact that I am sharing it with you – not just strangers but people who know me in the flesh. Have seen me as a child, dancing, drunk. There are emotions that pulse in my fingertips, beg to be written, but I don’t have the words. I have realised that my best stories are left untold.
2. The posts I create for you are poor imitations of someone else’s better attempts. Which isn’t me saying that I can’t write – just I can’t write, like me, for you. I don’t know how yet.
3. I just think it’s weird because people will read my writing and then will talk to me with this preconceived idea of who I am. Always, it’s been kind – I’m surprised that anyone could read the mess of posts on here and think that I am the kind of person they would like to know.
4. I am maybe someone who you would like to know – but I am not my writing.
Writing is, by very nature, romantic. It is love and colour and a whirlwind of pretty adjectives all in a row. I can make my messy hair and retainer sound relatable and cute instead of exhausting. I can focus on the rough of fabric rather than the monochrome of colour. Talk about the softness of sleep instead of washing my sheets. There are two sides to every moment and on here I always choose the prettier one.
I am not a bad person, but no one really is. People are broken or confused or not ready – but I don’t really think that anyone is inherently awful. The more tired I am the more I dislike people but the more I understand them.
I just think that if you really want to know me you shouldn’t take my word. I write and so I romanticise everything. Talk to the people who used to love me. The ones who know me at my best and have left me at my worst. They’re the only people who have seen me clearly enough to clearly judge what kind of person I am.
Because every trait has two sides, just like moments.
I feel my grief really physically. I can’t eat, my stomach implodes and I get a real, tangible pain in my chest that aches hard – but I also feel love physically. I think I love harder than anybody I know.
I can be perceptive and be kind, but I can also use that to hurt people with uncanny accuracy. I am smart and thus I am lazy. I run away wanting to be chased. I guess it’s exhausting to be neither good or bad but it’s true of everybody.
People are not always what you expect and they rarely are exactly what you want.
Basically this post is just me saying don’t judge a book by a cover. Or me by my writing.
I am not a mess of characters on a screen.
Just a mess, just a girl, just me.
Cheers for reading anyway x