Sorting things out . . .

Too often I keep things to myself - only letting them play out in my mind - never divulging the deep. How many times have I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and scribbled out a verse or thought of my own? I cannot count the number nor locate the pieces that contain my lost musings. This is for me - no one knows it exists. . . A place for my mind and soul to spout whatever lies there - I can no longer keep it locked inside for me to turn over and over. Free to pen loquacious reflections without receiving odd looks, free to be as simple as I want to be. How is it possible for me to sit next to someone and be thousands of miles away? My brain churning thoughts that could only originate from the Mariana Trench . . . and yet, when asked, "What are you thinking about" my reply is simply, "Nothing." Ah, "Nothing." Kingdoms fall on that very word - King Lear and Gloucester forfeited everything on the simple utterance of "Nothing." What do I forefeit when that weighted word springs forth from my lips? I assume the asker will not understand if I try to explain - why bother to express things so ingrained in me for someone else not to get it? Often times I feel words are wasted; there are times when words cheapen or rob silence. Why is it so difficult for humans to sit in silence? Must empty words constantly fill the air to displace awkward silence? Being uncomfortable is a good thing - it makes us look our vulnerability headlong in the face. We are all vulnerable - not all choose to acknowledge that fact. Perhaps that's my hidden agenda here . . . this forces me to physically view my insecurities and flaws. Flaws run deep and course through my veins, yet that is a part of me I'd rather keep silenced. A journal hidden in the midst of an open cyberspace - no one to read it but me. I feel the most vulnerable when people read my writings - perhaps that explains why I've written innumerable songs and only shared 5 at the most. It's like standing naked in a crowded room . . . This explains why, when I had free access to a recording studio and someone willing to produce & mix for free, I only laid down 3 tracks. The fear of facing myself far outweighs fear of an encounter with an axe murderer in dark, abandoned woods. When my writing is critiqued it's like rape - my brain is being pillaged by uninvited strangers. Yet, over and over, it's the uninvited strangers and strangeness of life that lead me to be that much more . . .