the concept

Dear After Me,

I had a good day. I know, bizarre, right? I never seem to post after good days. Well, don’t call this a new leaf. One post is never a new leaf. You can’t even see the leaf from here. Got that? No leaf.

When I was little, it never occurred to me that there was anything weird about the way I played with my toys. Or rather, the way I made them communicate. They talked, just like people in books. And me, well I was the facilitator. I didn’t speak in the voices of my characters. Instead, I told their stories. Third person narrative, all the way.

I didn’t realize this was weird until I played with someone who wasn’t in my close family. She watched me telling stories with my characters for a few minutes and then told me that I was doing it all wrong. By that point it was too late. I was the narrator.

It wasn’t until years later that I grasped the full meaning. I never wanted to be my barbies when I was younger, I just wanted to tell their stories. I don’t think that this is what made me a writer. I think that this was me writing all along.

Sometimes being a storyteller means that other people will tell you that you’re doing it all wrong. That doesn’t mean you’ll stop. Because, more than likely, you couldn’t, even if you tried.

“The shortest distance between truth and a human being is a story.”
Anthony De Mello

someone like you…

Dear After Me,

It’s too late to be blogging, nearly 2:00. Besides, who knows if this will even live to see the light of day, this sudden inspiration, this sudden break from fear. Because honestly, that’s what’s holding me back. Fear.

It’s sweet but acrid, like eating something delicious only to find that it leaves a taste in your mouth that you can’t stand. Fear is safety, fear is… knowing that if you don’t jump, you won’t fall. If you don’t say something, your face won’t burn with embarrassment, and, most importantly, if you don’t bare your insecurities, you won’t have to deny them later. That’s fear.

But fear is also regret, knowing that you’ll never see the top of the hill, you’ll never get to express your opinion, and you’ll never feel clean.

I’ve been cleaning lately. Not my room, though it certainly needs it, no, I’ve been cleaning my emotional closet. There’s just one thing I can’t get at, too far to reach on tippy toes, too far away to reach. And I need to reach it, badly. Because, even though I love this old shirt, love the way it fits, the way it makes me feel, and the way I can always pull it out, it’s old and raggedy. It’s worn and degrading. I deserve better. It’s time for a new one. It had it’s chances, more chances than I’ve ever given anything. And, surprise of surprises, end’s means didn’t pan out.

Metaphors aside, I’ll stay metaphorical. If I were going to call this anything, I’d call this the end of an era. A depressing, disappointing, informative, wonderful, day-dream era. It’s been sweet but acrid. I will miss it, I will miss all of it. Still, I think the person I’m becoming won’t miss it, ever.

K.