It’s like I have a new-born baby now and I feel like checking up on it every few seconds, wondering if it’s ok. Wondering if it needs anything through the silence. Blogging... I always thought of blogs as spaces for cultural/intelectual/thematic discussions and expression, and all I see here is me, in the simplest expression.
I know I wrote yesterday, and part of me thinks, shouldn’t I wait before posting something else? Shouldn’t I have a post that sings to the world, that touches souls and consciences? Considering, however, that I’m probably the only one reading this, what does it matter?
It boggles my mind how much I do exactly that – regulate my actions as to mirror some unsaid rule or outside expectation, as if the world actually interprets my every move.
What does it say about me that I write as if my hands were on fire, what does it say about me that I feel the urge about 100 times a day, that the only feeling that parallels the contaiment I get from words is the intimacy of someone’s hands and mouth near mine?
I guess it says exactly what it does. My hands are on fire, the urge urges and holding is what I seek.