This post is filled with so much sadness and it had provoked some thoughts and feelings which I have hidden far away because sometimes I find myself having this great desire and enthusiasm to write but there is so many thoughts rushing through my mind. This thoughts are interwoven with fear of exposing my vulnerability to the world, afraid to open up that personal door for people to know what really lies inside. I guess with time I’m learning to let go being so conscious with everything and doing things which can be considered a bridge to my personal space. Therefore, I also have a blog and I consider it my personal space because it consists of my emotions, thoughts and feelings. I think I’ve taken a step forward with my concern about writing and sharing it with the world.
I have writing notebooks hidden under my bed. The writing in them spans years of my life; there are many words on the pages.
The thing is…I haven’t looked at them in years. Literally. I am afraid to look at them. I am afraid to remember things I wrote about, things I have long since forgotten. I am afraid of the memories. Most of all, I am afraid of my voice.
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