~Not Yet~

If I'm not eradicating emotional static here, the allure of this black zone softens and I find myself typing words and erasing them. Thoughts come forward, shake their head and move back into the recesses of my mind. And this is where I find myself early this morning.

Wanting to write, yet, devoid of direction. Writing about a sloven desire is hardly a remarkable topic, but in my world, half the battle is intention. The majority of the time I feel like the person that I am, and the person who desires a writing venue are two separate souls residing as cohabitants inside the complex apartment that is my mind. Sometimes we are at odds, rarely do we move in unison and frequently, one overrides desire in the other and claims victory. Seldom do these characteristics that embody me, sway hand in hand. Today is a forced compromise. The result is mundane banter.

Write. Writing. Writer.
I claim to write.
I admit I am prolific about writing.
I never claim to be a writer.

I'm saving the last claim for a succulent occasion worthy of the actual proclamation. I must observe the word 'writer' different from most. It seems, just about anyone can and does claim to be a writer these day. Especially with the advent of the Internet. I however, place my personal definition of writer on a pedestal and honor it's ambitious possibilities defined only by tangible achievement. Since I have not achieved or even approached my ambition, I'd rather people not lump me in same category of those that have.

I guess I write this slow and circling entry because someone within my circle placed me on the spot this weekend and proclaimed to masses I was a writer. It left me speechless and holding an empty explanation in the faces of grinning admiration (?). I understand it was an innocent compliment, however, in such a public atmosphere......it irritated the fuck out of me. If I don't claim it, why must others imply it or worse, proclaim it loudly?

I would like this.
Rebecca writes. A lot.
Enough said.

Temporary Pauses

It's been awhile. A temporary pause in the extraordinary fickleness that is Rebecca. My writing production is typically in direct proportion to my moods. In my world, silence is the faculty of a really fabulous mood, or a very dire black hole. The middle zone is what I offer here. I don't think I need to point out which direction the month of January took me.

I have rethunk, redesigned and tucked away that delusional notion I was entertaining earlier in January...... the one about being forthright and upfront about issues, problems, internal clockworks and the entire "sharing" concept. Tried it out, licked it, chewed it, laid back on the family and friends output/input couch with my hands behind my head and spewed outward my personal life. Did not like it, not in the least, not even very little.

Problem. I understand now with that concept, is when someone like me outputs as I did (a rare occurrence), the input I receive comes back tenfold, overwhelmingly so, to the point I find I must crawl into a closet and separate my own thoughts from other peoples.

The backlash to that, is the beautiful people who were trying to help, find my sudden retraction from interaction confusing and personal. I shall not put people I care about in that precarious position again. There is nothing predictable and secure when it comes to an outside entity trying to engage within my borders. I've always understood that about myself and why I opened the gate is beyond excuse. I lured them all in with my words and when I began to feel suffocation, I pushed them right back out. Inexcusable. My fault. I know better. I must not forget my freak factor.

The positive note to my January is some lofty changes I accomplished and that are still in motion. When I jumped, I fell marvelously, but in the crush I achieved forward movement. I'll adhere to that for now and observe what I'm writing a year from now. Only time will reveal the depth of my tenacity and will of mind.