Maybe it’s time to be honest with myself again.
That’s so hard, isn’t it? To reveal, to see the wounds you know are yours. You are at the same time the one exposing, the one exposed and the one exposed to. And also the one who is cleaning the wound. With alcohol, damn it.
When I started this blog it was not with one goal or reason or “mission” alone. The talks behind it were about many things. The plans. Ideas. Wishes.
It is time I admit… When at last it came to life, formed as a collection of poetry, deep down I did it because of the need to be heard too. To feel like my feelings matter. Like the words I bring to life matter. I think, yes, that I hoped it would give me some comfort. Some sense of being seen, valued.
But it doesn’t work that way… If someone cares about how you feel, you don’t need to broadcast it to matter. And if they don’t, then no bold letters, no loud words will make it heard.
I am thankful, because I’ve got to know some magnificent and wonderful people because of this blog. I’m thankful for them. I’m especially thankful for one unique person that made me realize just how much I missed sharing love for poetry with anyone.
My own poems, yes. Because even though I’m not a poet and I write to let feelings go, it’s so so touching to be appreciated. And his appreciation was even more valuable. Not that nobody ever said anything nice about my poems. (True, it was not the persons I wanted the most to care… Never…) However, I was raised to know there are different levels of literature, there are those who write and there are writers. I believe everything written has some value, if not for others then for those who wrote it, and I acknowledge it, but I cannot deny that not everything written has the same cultural value. I have no illusion of my word’s worth. Yet I cannot say it didn’t feel good when someone who appreciates and knows literature says they like what you wrote.
But more than that it was sharing love FOR poetry, the poems that touch me, not mine. It was the gift of sharing a poem you love and it’s appreciated. It’s this wonderful warmth when you show something you like and the other person likes it too.
So yes, I’m beyond thankful for those moments. Darling… The time that you dedicated to me meant more than I could ever express. It was one of most wonderful times I’ve had. I’ve been able to show and be me as I was not in a very long time. Maybe ever.
Yet, I can see it. People I meet for a moment or two, however special they are, cannot be expected to fill the void I have in me. Some things, unrelated yet so synchronized, made me think it’s time to admit. I was hungry, starving for being seen, heard, understood, appreciated, liked, wanted. It is time I admit this blog is partially (perhaps even mostly) about me and my want. It is time I also accept it doesn’t work that way.
After all, again, I believe if there is someone who truly cares, they show it. And if they don’t… You can’t make anyone care. You just have to accept it.
Now I am here, wondering if I should stop with all of this or not. Wondering if I should accept what is, or continue what I need. Wondering if I should shut down the blog or not.
Perhaps… Not long ago I met someone who lives very unconventional life. We talked for some time. I asked him if he shares his experience with anyone and he said he doesn’t, that it’s for him, and he doesn’t really know if it would matter. I told him what Whale said to me long long ago. Sometimes sharing is not about you. It’s about anyone else, someone else, somebody, anybody, perhaps just one person, who will read it when they will need it most and it will, in some way, mean something to them. Touch them. Maybe help them, maybe just make them smile or feel not so alone.
I don’t know if my words are what needs to be shared. I know they are not some great poetry. But they are me. Raw. Honest. And maybe, just maybe, sharing makes it better for one person in the world besides me. If it does, I can accept my personal, egoistic drive to continue with publishing.
Alenka H., 2022