I have a million thoughts meandering through my brain, but none of them crave the microphone. None of them rise to the forefront.
Some things I won’t write about, at least, not for others to read. I write them for myself. I have notebooks full of thoughts, tangents of perception, and passionate opinions. I am prolific and loud.
But I won’t put them here. Too personal, or so it seems for now.
Though, I may change my mind.
I’d rather be daring on my motorcycle or with a character’s perceptions than my own. Not that I haven’t had passionate discussions or gotten riled up.
There’s something comfortable about not always being in the middle of opinion and passion. Something stable and consistent. Something I can stand on because when I’ve stepped off and pushed my voice into another’s mind, I’m left coated.
Like I splashed hot oil all over my person, and no matter how much soap I use, I can’t remove its film. So much passion resonates that I’m breathless with the fight.
My “rightness” slicks my mind in peppery heat, and I am at its mercy until it wears off. This state of mind is not always the best residence to reside in. Not one to be avoided per se, but not one to seek out on a regular basis.
A similar effect can occur if I deny my thoughts’ expression.
These repressed thoughts and feelings will linger in the niches of my mind, refusing to capitulate, demanding their voices be heard. They are most destructive. Vindictive as a cat who’s decided it doesn’t like its owner and urinates on the owner’s pants every night.
The line between the two is where I hope regularly to find my departure point—an easy mixture of forthcoming expression and attentive hearing. I may know many things, but simultaneously I know very little.
Expressivity is paramount and vital but requires temperance and a listening ear.
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Weathered Well 