Wanted: A Sense of Humor

This writer feels the need to justify why her writing seems rather self-indulgent. You see, ever since she was very young, she always figured that she was writing for an audience. Even something as private as a secret diary could be read (and was read) by someone else. The minute a thought is transformed into the written word, it ceases to be private. It now belongs to the reader, or readers, and is subject to interpretation, criticism, standing ovation, etc.

So she finds it very hard to be honest, knowing that her words and songs have caught the eyes of someone else, and she really wants them to know who she is and why she is but this awful need to be seen and read and understood in a certain way keeps her from writing about anything but herself. You see, the funny thing is, you can't ever be done writing about yourself if you feel so misunderstood, you're never done explaining.

This writer enjoys reading the works of others and often wishes that such profound words would enter her thoughts so that she could write about them instead. Or perhaps something witty to comment on, or spiritual to explain, or innovative to present...but alas, she remains, well, a bit empty. This is a rather strange phenomena, because she used to be quite verbose, but now feels unsure of the very words that she had mastered.

It almost seemed like these words turned against her as she tried harder and harder to decipher their meanings. So the more she tried to dissect them, the smaller and smaller they became, until there was nothing left to dissect and she was left with nothing. Just some letters and symbols that can go together in various shapes and forms, but seem arbitrary now.

There's something dead inside, and it's starting to smell.