How odd, I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
- David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
I read that the other day and it reminded me that I have drafts.
Do you have drafts?
I've always had greater agility sorting out the caverns of my emotions in the written word.
But, I learnt not too long ago that emotional, reactive e-mails weren't the way to go.
So I have drafts.
Things that I felt once, always towards a boy, affections that risked taking the air out of my lungs at the time, but now...
Well, now, they're unread and unsaid.
I don't go back.
I don't re-read.
They get written, then, I dunno, time takes them away into an open sea of decay, like a viking ship burial.
I just flaming arrow the thing and slowly turn to walk away, the wind tearing my hair across my face, the thud of my boots all somber.
Those thoughts, that time, sinks way out there, somewhere.
I flaming arrow it because the answer is ripe in reality when I ask myself:
Will my bargaining, arguing, justifying, pleading, asking change the outcome or change who he is?
If the answer feels like a solid no, I draw back the bow and let the arrow fly.
You might wonder, "Yeah, but what if he knew?"
Trust me, I've thought about that.
But those drafts usually had something to do with convincing via proving.
I'll convince you I'm worth it, I can be that girl, I'm what you need, and see, I can prove it.
See how much I feel for you? Read what I wrote!
And then I cut that shit right out.
That whole getting a verdict on me from the outside was like putting myself on the funeral pile. So I got up, climbed the cliff, said what I needed to say, gave it some time, then pinned the draft to a sinking ship.
I watched the great and glorious sea carry the smoke into the smaller and smaller and smaller...
It's a quiet thought to think now, tonight.
Somewhere far, far away are the ashes of all the things I've never said...