The girls who eat their feelings

If a tree falls in the middle of a forest with not a soul around to hear it, does it really make a sound? If a chef creates a masterpiece of a meal, but there is no one to taste it, does it still have flavor? If a writer bears her soul with beautiful words, but shows it to no one, would it still be beautiful?

I'm not trying to be philosophical.

The words bounce through my head all day, held captive by my feeble tongue and my frail mind. I feel it is only necessary to jot them down--to give them life. The words deserve the freedom found in commas and brotherly phrasing. They deserve to live. They deserve to be. But what about me? After discovering freedom from the insufferable concourses of my skull, the words selfishly betray me with their clarity and transparency. I am left alone, vulnerable, and exposed. Despite their betrayal, these words are a part of me. They are the only refuge I have-- a refuge that is probably a common necessity for writers. Writing is not a severe like, or even a love for the words filling space in one's skull; but, rather, an obligation to those words. It is a force driven by the innards of one's soul-- a force that runs ball point ink pens dry, fills spirals and notebooks, and phrases the essence of the ambiguous and the sublime.

I can feel this force now, it is causing me to write again-- causing me to feel that bare exposure that I am so painfully familiar with. The exposure, however, is inspired by a piece of artwork found in a world darkened of blindness. I, too, like the artist and the paintbrush, want to be heard: no matter how rough the road to lucidity becomes.

I'm as unstable as a new-born colt discovering its skinny legs for the first time. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, and I can smell the fields waiting for my widened strides to explore them. However, I am unable to make my way beyond the fence that encompasses my small world. Sunny days keep my mind on the good: the safety of the pen, the familiarity of the scent, the blessed siblings learning to walk with me, and the powerful stallions training us with their expertise. However, some days the sun becomes dark, and that contentment resurfaces as turmoil. The pen becomes a prison, the scent becomes a stench, and the rivalry of forceful peers causes the pressure of life to become more than my small, skinny legs could handle in the first place. I'm ready for change, I'm ready for escape.

My words don't mean much to you without the few allusions to my self-sense of inability and mediocrity, my tire of monotony, and my gaping insecurities. I'm frustrating like that-- I never spell it out just right. I expose myself, but only a little, for I am guarded. I keep you wondering just enough to make you frustrated, but I give you enough to keep you interested.

I write everything, and then seal it in a vault. Perhaps, one day, I will realize the full impact of the tragedy of the painting I mentioned in a previous paragraph, and share myself with the world. But, today, I will give you a paragraph, give myself five and then eat my feelings.

Besides, a good bowl of ice cream never hurt anyone.