So… What now?

I started this blog with the intention to write every single day, To pour my heart out to you, my anonymous audience. There was no need to fear your criticism nor your reaction to my writing I could simply share my stories and thoughts in any way I chose but, I do fear your criticism I fear the reaction of anyone reading the stories I want so desperately to release from the confines of my mind and yet, my words fall short. I wanted to tell you all my painful secrets and express to you exactly how they define me in different ways and make me a tapestry of temporary happiness. Even as I type this I seek comfort in music, Bob Dylan croons to me as I stare around an unfamiliar room and think of you. Yes, you. Who are you? What’s brought you to this page and what has engaged you to get this far? Are you waiting for me to disclose some horrible secret? Want me to unveil some trauma that suddenly makes your heart ache for me a complete stranger? Unfortunately, It’s gonna take me a little while to work up to that but, in the mean time.. I’d like to tell you a little bit about myself. I was aptly referred to as Conundrum by my pregnant mother as I occupied her figure. Little did she know I’d grow to encompass just that I would to any passing observer seem like a fairly sane and self-reliant person but on closer inspection the cracks in the paint are more apparent my anxieties andĀ self deprecating humour are apparent as a shield I wield in a constant battle to feel secure in my own skin. I’d love to say I’m winning the fight but in order to authentically do this my candour is a neccesity. I will tell you this dear reader, my constant self critisism feels like a cage but, the bars of this cage are visible only to me. Everyone that loves me can hear my pleas for help but they can see no hinderance to my success. Little do they know I am the property of a conciousness that constantly cripples me. Now, I wonder how many of you are still reading. How many of you have turned away from this in a desparate attempt to find something less self involved and how many of you feel the pang of recognition in my words? I wish I could reach out to every single one of you who feel how I do and tell you how beautiful you are. I don’t mean physically I mean internally. You my dear friend are made from stardust as far as I am concerned simply because you are still fighting where so many have fallen. Which is why I find myself in an unfamilliar living room confessing my inner most insecurities to you. Isn’t it ironic that my desparate attempt to connect and share comes from the part of myself I feel the greatest shame about? Maybe that’s strength.. Or just idiocy… Or both?


The Food Of Love.

Music has always been a staple in my household. Never a dinner without an argument about who would shift through the endless CD’s to find the perfect accompaniment to our home cooked meal. It sounds wholesome but I’m pretty sure I bled once. I craved music as a child, every time a new band was introduced it was as if a whole new set of emotions that I’d felt but had never been able to express were cultivated and somehow beautiful. I remember first hearing ‘Vienna’ by Billy Joel and seeing my entire 8 years of life stretched out across piano keys. I can’t quite put into words what haunts me so much about Billy Joel’s work but, his words capture and move me in a very unique way. Most of the advice my father gives me are Bob Dylan lyrics. Music was cornerstone of my upbringing a safe haven in the eye of the storm I can shake off my juvenile concerns and allow myself to sink into lyrics, rhythm and occasionally a pretty remarkable sax solo. I’ve adapted and changed but throughout the years I always find myself returning to the classics that shaped my ideals and understanding of human emotion so much for safety reassurance and sometimes a pretty good dance. Whenever I share music it’s because I’m desperately trying to impart the same knowledge I’ve taken from it to another. People rarely understand my fixation with sitting in complete silence just listening to someone else sing. You’ll never see me without my earphones in, usually with a fixated stare into the distance focused yet constantly moving, observing. Music is the only thing that seems to always make sense to me. I run to it always, in joy, sadness, reflection, even anger. It’s a sanctuary and I wouldn’t trade my sanctuary of someone else’s words for anything. The safety I find within the memories they hold folded gently within each note is home to me. I have found a home within someone else’s words where there is always tea in the pot and a different story to be unraveled.