I think about talking about feeling relieved every time I've hit send, like this iota footprint of space has cleared out from my clogged to choking mind, never quite sure how to put it into words. My last post was the beginning of my 2017 version for 31 Days of Blogging (which I've actually been working on since this morning/last night, making sure all the links were updated right, and picking pictures during work today on the side), and I thought I'd glance at my number II from 2013.
Starting out, my options, were amusing, but then I hit twelve and felt my heart stutter.
12. I write a lot. A lot. And it's true that maybe there is only one person who sees it that on a daily basis, whether that's in a game or it's in iMessage. But it's there, and I really only massively worry about how my internal barometer is doing when I stop being able to see where the massive daily/weekly outpouring of my words is.I used to talk about this a lot. The idea words (words, words) defined where my internal barometer truly was, and you could tell something was wrong if I was quiet and not writing. It wasn't ever not true. A number of words happening in my week. Anywhere. Everywhere. I'm not writing a lot anywhere. Discourse is at a minimum. There are band-aids, but not tributaries.
The idea this silence shapes the edges of my emptiness feels suddenly deafening tonight, in these words from a me who was only saying them four years ago, four very different years ago, especially when I think about the fact 90% of the noise in my weeks, currently, is children, who need me as a teacher and don't know me at all as a singular person...
I'm not entirely willing, or wanting, to stare at the whole of this dark shape in the eyes yet. But at least I can recognize its name in the mouth of my younger self, when I feel where the sore beat of my heart thumps furiously for a moment in the clear connection to what was once far more of itself.