After finishing my first “diary” entry at 7 years old I remember sitting back and staring at the scribbled-on page. I read what I wrote and tied a rubberband on it and shoved it into the back of my desk drawer. I did this my whole life.
When it came up that I enjoy writing, it was always the same question, “Can I read some?” So I was always more inclined to lie, and instead deny one of the biggest parts of me. My writing’s are a direct line to my brain. An explanation of the twists and turns of my mind, and to have them outside my head scared the shit out of me. My literary offspring on it’s own? Being passed judgement without my paternal rights to defend it? Fuck no dude. What if it’s misunderstood?
What you love to do most is a strange thing to fear. Looping letters and crossing lines into something real, something I can hold, something I can fold up and tell someone else without saying anything at all. Something to tell others who I am when no one else is there.
The tough part of being a free spirit is being misunderstood- by just about everyone. They don’t understand why you have such a hard time staying in one place. Or why you’d rather switch up your job regularly than feel unfulfilled. They don’t understand why you’re constantly changing your hair color or your address or why you’re always somewhere in the mountains without cell service.
No no no, you can’t look through my notebooks, you can’t shuffle through the top drawer of my art table and you sure as fuck can’t read my blog.
Wild Little Hare 