facing the writing self

I haven’t been writing. at all. a few social media posts. a few well structured emails. mostly from a sense of obligation. Not from the instinct to write. because that voice is very small, and very easy to put on mute. it is a little voice that looks at me sideways when i’m spending my time explaining to someone something I worked out years ago. and i answer back, but people like when i speak to them. they don’t seem to life when i write at them. i know my writing voice is one of writing at people, i need to find ways to better invite the reader. but if the noise demands enough i can swerve and avoid the collision with all that i don’t write. when i lay awake and can’t sleep, trying to throw my anchor down to stay stable in a port for the night, the writing finds the silence it was waiting for. three almost fours years ago now, when i declared a space to write, i did want to also be read. and now with the passing of a thousand days i can’t quell just the instinct to write. eight years ago when i started this blog, it was an outlet for everything i couldn’t say in public. and i have seen so many other people say what i thought had to remain hidden, what i said without my name, what felt dangerous to all my other roles.

now the NBA proclaims Black Lives Matters plastered right on the parquet floor. eight years ago it felt like to virulent a political statement for a public school teacher to wear loud and proud. as other people wrote on what i didn’t dare write i conceded that i should leave it to them. so i haven’t been writing.

my dog barks at every firework, he barks at every motorcycle that sounds like a growling predator. he has no sense that it has already been confronted. so why should i. the explosions keep coming.

to fail or not to fail, what is your response

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