Monday, 31 March 2014

Should I give myself to you, the reader, completely?

Spending time with a very good friend, he commented that in my writing I don't always give myself away completely. If he was a philistine, I would ignore this but, as it stands, he is an outstanding writer and academic. As a writer, should we give ourselves fully to the reader? Or should we keep some of our 'self' inside?

I admit to being an incredibly complex human. I am not simple in any aspect of my life; my 'self' does not exist in simple means. I am unsure as to whether I bring this on myself. I suppose I must do in some way. I am a juxtaposition of romance and bitterness; fantasy and reality. In my daily life I somehow manage, just about, to reach a middle ground for the purposes of the general viewing public. If I were to pour my heart and soul out to you now, in this mutually desolate and overcrowded stage of the Internet, I am unsure how you would feel. Unsure whether you would want to read on and how it would taint your reading of past, present and future. If you were ever to meet me, would you feel fear or affection?

At the bottom of my mind lies the remains of romance, the bones of hope and the wings of youth. Surrounding this is a smog laden poisonous cancer of hate, bitterness and depression. There is nothing pleasant in this place, nothing pure, nothing optomistic. The disease of the creative self, the thoughtful self, laughs at the graveyard of my past. It mocks the simple dreams, the innocent laughter and secretly weeps at its loss. If you look beneath my witty retort, endless words and passion, you will find a stack of corpses from long ago. There are no mourners for them, no flowers, no goodbyes. Only ear bleeding screams and cries from a locked room, hidden from polite society.

Is that what you want to hear? I will leave it to you, the reader, to decide which part of me is my true 'self.' Or maybe, you will be deciding which 'self' you would like me to be. Your call.

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