The dangers of being such a verbose writer is that I capture the emotion felt in each moment to a T. Re-reading what I write in moments of passion makes me relive those moments. Reading what was written in moments of anger brings that anger back with a fierceness that sometimes scare me. I want to be bigger than that. I don’t want to be tied to past ghosts. Reading what I wrote in moments of hurt, brings that hurt back with a depth that nearly knocks me off my feet. I want to be stronger than that. I don’t want to be brought to my knees with mere words. I am especially bothered by reading things that inspire anger and hurt that I was never given a chance to vent or work through. I feel like the pain is lingering somewhere in my subconscious, awaiting a day when it can take revenge. I don’t want to be vengeful. I want to be at peace. My life is too good right now to be haunted by ghosts of past friends and relationships that didn’t last. I am not that girl anymore. I am a different woman. My only fear is that as different as I may think myself to be, the inspirations behind those passionate words have not changed. They are still the same and awaiting another opportunity to inspire that kind of anger, hate, passion, love or jealousy inside of me. And as much as I have grown, at my core I am still the same person. The only thing that has changed is the level of maturity that should come with age. And thankfully for me, it does. I still love to love with reckless abandon. I still feel pieces of soul melt away when a friend hurts me. I still cry for others. I still yearn for bigger and better things. I still build my life towards a happily ever after ending. The dangers of writing is that in those moments when one specific situation feels to my heart like a matter of life and death, I capture that desperation and that yearning so eloquently that it comes rushing back as soon as I read it. The danger in writing is that in that one moment in time when I was filled with so much hate and anger towards the attacks that others made on my name and reputation, I captured my fury so perfectly that when I read it my blood still boils. Where is the woman who has learned to forgive and forget? Where is the woman who has learned to let go of others before they become a permanent poison in your life? That woman disappears in the moments when I read about what it took for me to become her. Those are the dangers in writing…
…but I can’t stop it doing it. Not now, not ever.
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