Scylla. Charybdis

It's been difficult to write. It has been for a while now.

It's aggravating when there's so much you have to say but for one reason or another, you can't allow the thoughts to be translated into words. Part of it is that the words won't come even though there's an increasing buildup of pressure in my head from words left unsaid, matters not articulated, to anyone at all. Part of it is that it's so intensely personal, either to myself, or to those I love, that letting the world know about the chaos in my head does them, and myself, a disservice. (Because there are always those who will pick apart your words, who will rejoice at your misfortunes, who rain on your parade when things go right. Yeah, you know who you are, motherfuckers.)

And again I find myself wondering how to strike the balance between the inexplicable need to write one's thoughts down, to fling those words into cyberspace, to have them read, and the need to guard one's privacy, one's heart. To not let the invaders through the castle walls.

I write because it is cathartic, to some degree. I write because I want to remember, because my puny hamster memory will otherwise forget, and I'll have a blank slate as my past, with even the best and the worst wiped clean. I write sometimes because I have a message, or something I take issue with, and I want to get on my own little soapbox and talk about it, damnit. And sometimes I write because sometimes I just need to fling those words out there and touch someone, even if it's a stranger who stumbles across this and read it.

So: honesty or the closure of this blog? Because if there is no honesty then why bother writing? But yet, it's hard to go. Habit and custom sometimes makes a prisoner of you. I know I've spoken about this before, and I came back, and stayed. But there are so many things I censor that what appears here is only a small part of what I want to remember, or what I need to express, and we reach full circle again.

Honesty. Closure.