It is getting harder to write and harder to be inspired but the urge is always there.
How did my Emily write when she was trapped within? I know I should call her Emily Dickinson and not call her by her first name. It is improper and implies that I know her; implies that we are friends. In my mind we are friends. We have always been friends. Not for the reason people use to accuse us.
When I use to read her life and her letters, I felt this warmth from her. I felt this bravery and grace. I felt laughter and kindness. Then I became frustrated because everyone sees her as the crazy poet. She was the poet who locked herself in her bedroom where she mentally killed herself with isolation. This image is tragic, for I believe it all a lie. Emily Dickinson was very sociable, at least before, she turned 40. She loved education, nature and had some bold statements that would challenge the academic world.
In Truth, I am not afraid these walls will take my soul. I am afraid my father will take me with him or worse rather, leave me behind. There is no way to express that. There is no way to define that relationship, so I should quit trying. No one can feel his breath on my cheek as I do.
I wish I could somehow see people’s dreams. If only it took a password, that I would have, and then I could see what inspires them. I could see what makes them feel good, and then maybe, just maybe, I could help them accomplish that.
I feel like friendships to survive in adulthood they must be only skin deep. You send them Christmas cards and thank you notes. You invite them to big events like weddings and baby showers. You don’t open your soul. I suppose if you do that it lends yourself to romantic implications and therefore becomes “complicated.”
I find that ‘friendship’ becomes more and more complicated. Even though I felt like a loner a lot as child, it was still easier. The friend was the person who knocked on your door and asked you if you wanted to play. It was the kid who played footsie with you under the desk when the teacher wasn’t looking.
You ever had the feeling of wanting to comfort someone but realizing you have nothing to offer. It is the worse feeling.
There are certain friends that when I am with them, even if I have not seen them for a year, I have this protective instinct. I feel my body change the way I hold myself. I feel this warmth with this friend and I think I have to do everything to protect that warmth. Yet how can you if you don’t really know someone?
It is hard to figure out when to step forward and when to step back. I want to get to know people past a superficial level. And I wonder in this society, if that is impossible. I love writing letters to people and receiving them. I love hiding under blankets and sharing secrets. I understand that we feel we must protect our feelings , but I wonder if the cost of hiding them even from our friends, is too much.
