We write into the quiet, the great expanse of night, our fingers clacking on keys as we scratch out our thoughts and desires. We define ourselves in small quotable paragraphs, determined to prove ourselves in a form palatable yet sublime.
Exhibitionists, one and all, we are addicted to the art of exposure, bequeathed status in the the approval granted by the unseen horde, the eyes that watch our confessions, both titillating and mundane.
We are redeemed not by our actions but by our sentiments. We have been baptized in the font of ennui – enjoyed the soft possibilities of spring and endured the stark emptiness of winter. Our words are spun in spools of self, the act of creation becoming the art of re-imagining, re-defining, until we no longer write what we are, but are what we write.
“Exhibitionists, one and all”
How true, how true.
I’ve read this so many times now and I’m still in awe of how you get right to the heart of the matter, and so Eloquently. It gives me shivers.
Beautiful. You speak to me without knowing me, but I hear you as I hear myself.