Running up that hill

Don’t feel guilty. What most people don’t understand is that they are characters to someone else, that there are layers. We get so caught up in just one, that we don’t allow people to grow and change.  We stick them in boxes immediately, and if you’re not writing it’s fine.  I’ve never had someone discover my blog, although I’m sure if they did, there would be hell to pay.

Keep writing – you could go somewhere

Jane is one of my beautiful forgotten acquaintances, a waif thin blonde poet from Los Angeles who randomly emailed me in 2004. She was an enigma in many ways. I never really knew the girl behind the haze of poetic messages, but we both shared a love of confessional writing. I particularly loved getting emails from her in the small hours. The wonders of millennium technology was still remarkable back in 2004.

Looking back I find it amazing that someone so young could be so warm and insightful about the realities of life. How is this even possible? She was barely even twenty when she wrote this.

I don’t think either of us had had any real sense of each other IRL. We were complete strangers in that respect. Our correspondence was a weird abstract friendship that could only have flourished online.

I don’t recognise myself reading my old emails. I barely write at all now. You run out of things to say, or come to the realisation that everything you want to say has been written by somebody else.

It’s the fear that stops you from writing, the fear of someone you know or might meet will judge you without them realising, there are layers upon layers that make me unrecognisable to that person. That if you ever wrote about them, there would be hell to pay.

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