Wednesday, April 3, 2013


    I write, here on this page, this blog, this little world within my brain that I have chosen to nakedly share with the world, not to seek help, or sympathy, or, gods forbid, pity. I write because it is one sure way to rid Brain of the weird randomness that rolls around inside, battering on skull in an attempt to escape and wreak havoc on my world, my real world. I also write, flaying myself open for all to see, so that others might read and feel less alone. I know too well the feeling of my strange aloneness, that feeling of always being the outsider, the square peg, and I also know that there is nothing wrong with that. It is who I am. It is how I feel. I do not seek to change vital aspects of my Self that make me who I am. True, I do sometimes wish I cold walk into any room and feel like I owned it, owned the crowd, instead of faking my way through many social gatherings, presenting the tough, confident, self assured exterior. Those who know me know how fragile that facade can be. I have friends who know that I have a limit to how much, or how little, time I can spend in social gatherings before becoming exhausted and brittle. That is when Brain tunes everything out, voices become unintelligible white noise, as if Brain is overflowing and cannot accept any more input. Like a glass filled to overflowing. Yes, I hide this well, too. I will reach a point when I want to sneak away, find a dark corner to just sit, quietly and in the quiet, but I know if I find that space, I am not likely to leave it willingly. It is me. It is who I am.
    I also write, here on these pages, to sort through what often feels like chaos, constant noise, the garbled ramblings of my own voices. Truly it is just too many thoughts all vying for attention, clamoring, wanting to be heard. It is difficult to sort through at times. That is why I write. It is also why I exercise, nothing sorts through the chaos like the monotony of swimming lap after lap, or cycling and counting revolutions, or running and being lulled by the metronome of my steps. It is soothing. Soothing like the ticking of a clock, or the purr of a cat. Today, if I could, I would sequester myself away, lock myself in, and write. I would avoid all contact, all social interaction. But not today. I would if I could, but I can't today. So I will put up the facade and go out to face the world. It is what I do. It is who I am. Me, for better or worse, just me. And I like me that way.  

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