Ink That Knew Me Before I Did

"you’ve spent years becoming fluent in yourself—and you’re finally admitting that fluency means nothing if no one else ever hears you speak."


I've only realized this recently, which is very ironic and belated when I think about it. I have spent years processing my life through writing and I didn't exactly realize that directly. Realizing that now feels belated, like the kind of thing that anyone who knows me would know, except I didn't. I genuinely thought I just loved writing, but what if it's just that it's the way I know best how to meet myself, how to process my own experiences and surface through them. 

I've discovered truths I hold inside me before, while writing. I am most honest here. It's not to say I am not honest in real life, but writing poses no risk for me to be honest, so I am. It was also through writing that I've learned my subconscious can hide truths from me, as if there are two people inside (sounds meta, yes), but its real. I end up realizing so much about my own mind, thoughts, and feelings by writing, because writing allows me time to work through the way I organize information in my head subconsciously.   

I've also realized that I am not as expressive as I feel I am. As I write, my brain believes that I am saying all my truths and expressing myself (which is still true), but only I have access to all my writings. What little I allow people to read, are so curated that they often require me to explain what I mean. I am realizing that I am a locked house with glass doors. How is it that it has taken me almost two decades of writing to realize this about me? 

Now, I am finding myself going over every single thing I've ever written, ones I've posted, published and the hundreds of drafts that will never see the light of day. There are topics I've long let go off, I don't feel like writing about them anymore, and it's probably because I've finished processing them. Then there are topics and themes that permeate every single thing I've written, like ink stains on my fingers that leave marks on every parcel sheet I handle, or anything else that I handle at all. I am a pattern of my most subconscious thoughts and feelings, I am a pattern of my fears. As I read through these drafts, I am almost mad at the version of me who wrote them- for being so oblivious in an ironically ridiculous manner. Is this the cost of being way too self-involved? Too in-my-head?

Some might say yes, but I will differ. There is another truth that I've realized as well. I am ready to be understood in real life now in a way that I didn't really need before. That is why, I am finding my writing inadequate and I'm finally recognizing the way I use it to hide. Because what I need and want now, is to actually express myself outwards, whereas, I have only known inwards expression. I want to be known now. I must probably write less and learn to talk more (typing this last sentence out feels like irony.)

Vicky 


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