Why am I doing this again?

I’ve just realized that the reason writing is so important to me may be that it’s the only place where I’m strong. It’s the only place where I have the courage to assert myself and be what I want to be. And that’s pretty sad.

How time goes when the clock is running. I’ve spent a last night with a good friend before she leaves the country. Bittersweet, of course. Long conversation, which left me sad that she’s leaving, but also reawakened an old frustration with how people perceive me, and how different that is than I perceive myself. I often seem to strike people as safe and innocent. And I fucking hate that. Maybe I used to be. Maybe the shadow of it is still on me sometimes. But it isn’t real, and it’s not the life I’ve led. Somehow I seem to fail to get this across to people. Or some people. Or maybe I’m just annoyed and over generalizing.

As I sat here thinking over whether or not I had anything rolling around the old noggin worth writing down, it occurred to me that I was compelled to write something out just to get a solid, strong statement out there in a space where I couldn’t be contradicted, where I could set the tone and the beginning and the end myself, and to shout in my voice.

Is my voice this, right now, what you’re hearing in your head?