An odd dream becomes a reality

I admire blogs, journals, diaries, autobiographies, fictional accounts and real.

I enjoy the sound of my own voice, the feel of my thoughts.

Sharing these however, leaves me feeling bare, shivery, close-to-breaking-in-terror, so I’ve never had one, used one, done much more than lurk, and read.

I love to read, to roll the words on my tongue and dream of the voices that share them. I hope perhaps that things I may write, type, post will share some of this enjoyment with other beings.

To this purpose, I begin. Not with confidence, or anything clever to say, but a rambly litany of worries, hopes, dreams, toe-curling nervous delight. To share my thoughts, or at least the words that result from them, with anyone anywhere anywhen is a most disconcerting sensation.

I live in my masks, layers upon layers of them. I am not even sure where I begin and they end, or if there is an end to them.  Perhaps, like a pinata I am hollow under the layers of gaudy painted paper-mache, or like a bulbed root, my truest face lies curled and dormant waiting for inevitable bursting Spring? Likeliest perhaps, it lies at the end of a constantly growing, shifting stack of papers full of words and images, songs and scribbles, hidden from view by complicated plots and falsely witty repartee.

I fear I lie. To my kin. To my friends, family-by-choosing. To my self.
I don’t know what lies inside me, but I feel closest to plunging into those leering depths when i wear my masks, when for some time or another, I make it apparent I am not myself. I find freedom in playing obvious roles or characters, in taking a spot in a tale and feeling it twist the road beneath me.

Perhaps someday I’ll be brave enough to find whether it is in fact my own path that wriggles and dances to my uncertain steps.

For now, I’ll walk awhile here, the hidden trails in a strange land.


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