It came to me in the tub actually. I was soaking and mellowing out to a "Night" playlist, candles lit and lights out with my favorite bubble bath crackling around me. I do my best thinking in water, and without my glasses, so all the shapes and colors and shadows blend and my mind can focus inward.
I'm mad at the internet. That's why I don't write. It's why I don't tweet as often (except Thursdays because Shonda Rhimes, obviously). It's why it's like I've disappeared from the communities that I used to draw inspiration and strength from. It's not that I have nothing to say, it's just the opposite. I've got so much to say, but I don't feel like this space is my own anymore. I feel like I'm shouting into a void of darkness with no echo, no sound returning.
It'd be easy enough to blame Tarzan. I sort of relinquished Twitter to him; we follow a lot of the same people and talk about some of the same things and it was easier for me to forget the loneliness left in his wake when I'm not constantly seeing him on my time line. The real real is that I'm mad at me.
I am still so open. I am still so tender. And I'm still so hurt. I tell myself all the time, it was just a break up, shouldn't you be done with this by now? The tender side of me responds that it was the first, it meant the most, to be told I was great, but not great enough to keep. The tender side of me knows what the logical side doesn't; it's all internalized. Mostly, I miss being in love, and sort of blame myself that I'm not anymore.
I don't miss being in love with the guy. Looking back it was...something that I'm glad happened but we're not simpatico. Even back then, I don't think we really were. I miss the clarity that being in love gave me, the fullness of heart and the cure to the loneliness that was running rampant in my spirit at the time. I miss being able to be open sexually and sensually with someone who wanted me. I miss sex (like, OH my God...) and meaningful touch... But because of the internet, I don't trust my judgement much anymore; I mean, I put it out there, got an answer and...here I am, alone again.
But back to being mad at the internet. I rationalize not writing because no one is listening, but I know that's not necessarily true. People are listening; maybe that's what I'm afraid of. The internet gave me something I felt I was missing for a long time, and then...well, I don't have that thing anymore. I am myself, in everything I do, in everything I write. I'm afraid it'll happen again; I'll be the girl in love, the girl saying all the things, and working her ass off just to end up alone.
It's irrational. I know it is. And yet...I don't allow myself the freedom of expressing myself outside of the journals I keep for myself. I don't talk about myself much at all anymore. I don't create worlds anymore. I don't shout my dreams into the void and wait for an answer. Because sometimes, you get an answer back. And sometimes the answer just leads to more confusion and more questions.
So, because of the internet, I'm back to being the girl sheltering her heart. Back to being the girl afraid to be heard. But I miss it. I miss the feeling of keys under my fingers. I miss writing it all out and looking at it; it's like an acknowledgement of myself, because this blog is attached to my name - this blog is me. Facing your truth is one of the tenets of enlightenment, isn't it? If not, it sorta should be.