Perhaps most importantly, write for an audience of one — yourself. Write the story you need to tell and want to read. –Khaled Housseni
Sometimes, when I write for only myself, the words are honest and true and raw. This is supposed to make for good reading, and yet, why would I share that? Raw words can be dangerous. Used as weapons and daggers to the heart. I protect myself at all costs, because if I do not, the cost may be too great. Perhaps this is the reason that I am not the truest singer I can be. To let myself be raw and bare in front of others comes at too great a cost. I find it easier – not much, but marginally easier – to let my writing be more naked than my singing.
I have written raw words before. And even shared them. The cost though, is a dear one. It allows others to see into my soul for a moment, to the places I want to keep to myself. And when rejection comes, as it does in time, it scores ever deeper, and reminds me why we keep ourselves to ourselves. I say we, because I think of myself as we. There is me, the one I usually am, and there’s the little girl that hides in the background. The one who is shy and skittish. She is easily hurt, quite tender, and bears the scars of hundreds of cuts. She bears the scars so that I don’t have to. She is shy, so that I can be open. She is reserved so that I can be caring. And she remembers the hurts I cannot. Were I to remember, I would never care to care again.
Lately she has peeked out more. Perhaps she is curious? I only know that she is harder to protect when she is out. And I do want to protect her. I don’t like that she is scarred. I don’t care for her shy and skittish nature. Though I understand it completely. Honestly, sometimes I wish she would hide away and never come out again. It is painful for me to see her.
Perhaps it is not so much her I want to protect as it is me. The me who is loving and witty and quick to laugh. I like me. I love being witty and humorous, carefree and happy. She disquiets me. She reminds me of…of something. The darker side of me. The one who questions the motives of everyone I meet, or who waits patiently for the hurt that will come, given time for any relationship. I don’t like thinking of those things. I want to be – strive to be! – trusting and loyal and forgiving and…the perfect embodiment of agape love.
Of course, I am only human. I can’t be the perfect anything. But I try. I really do.