I try to publish something publicly every week. Some weeks the words rush out of me, other weeks they come to me when I make myself sit in front of a screen, rarely, like this week, they struggle to be written.
When I struggle, it is not because I have nothing to write about. Often, the opposite is true – my mind and heart are both so overwhelmed by thoughts and feelings that the linearity of words don’t seem to be sufficient for me to adequately express myself. All that comes out is are random fragments that pretend to be some representation of what that goes on in me. I wish I could write five paragraphs visually structured in a single row, all on disparate subjects but still somewhat intertwined together. I can understand why people use other mediums.
I still want to write though. Sometimes I wonder why I maintain two separate streams of writing at Medium and at my blog here, and days like this I remember why. Writing at Medium is like deliberately shouting something out to the world, writing here is like whispering to the wind, hoping that it will carry a piece of me somewhere out there. It doesn’t matter if it is nowhere, as long as it is out there.
I have realized that I write in different voices to different audiences. You would think my most authentic voice comes out in my private journal, but there is a deep, hidden part of me, so hidden that I barely knows that she exists, that comes out when I write privately to people I love. It is perhaps both ironic and telling that I reserve the innermost parts of me not to myself, but to the people I love, for I can be not forthcoming to myself yet I cannot help but be beautifully and painfully vulnerable to those I love.
Maybe one day, the strings of words I write will have a different dimension, if I could think of myself as someone I love.