Writing is an exercise in sharing. I express my deepest feelings and then I show them to others, put them out there for all to see, if they care to. It’s my way of sharing, of giving of myself and showing myself to others.
Sometimes I wonder how fair this is. After all, any writing I publish is something polished, something I’m happy or at least content with. How much does it show the rough edges, the dark places, the parts of me I don’t want anyone to see? Is writing the truest form of sharing?
And yet… I have trouble trusting spoken words. They’re harder to corral, to get just right in the moment. Sometimes there’s beauty in that unfinished aspect, and sometimes it just creates unneeded pain and confusion.