I’ve been procrastinating on writing.
The idea that I could be over sharing or pouring out parts of me that seem too vulnerable and feel like I’m setting myself up for pain keeps haunting me. I constantly feel the need to sit down and just pour out my heart, you know, to be vulnerable- not the safe kind of vulnerable like letting a potential mate in just enough to have them assume position in my life, I mean the real kind where I share my joys and my sadness without fear.
I want to change this narrative. I’ve made the conscious decision to take the bull, bulls sometimes, by the horns. Start small small and maybe that may trickle into how I speak, how I carry myself and how I express myself to people I know, love or even fail to know all together.
Maybe just maybe, the way to do this is through writing. Writing the hard and fast unbridled true ideas, feats, trials and tribulations, joys and sorrows. I should start, maybe and possibly, by writing from my heart, from the very depths of my darkness and the breadth of my light- and not editing things to make me seem near yet far.
I should dare to be myself.
My most authentic and honest self. Perfect in my imperfections and settled in my mental space and willing to be myself, fully and completely unapologetically.
As I write this I realize that that in interpreting is a pledge I am making for and to myself. To be my most authentic and honest self, to walk in my purpose and be settled in my mental self, to be willing to be myself, fully and completely unapologetically, whatever way shape or form myself takes.
To be the actual fantasy of my utopia, to be The Utopian Fantasy. And to use this space to express myself exactly that way.