Windows

Come look in my window. My soul is yours to see.

Writers show their inner works. Daring. Sharing. Cleaning out the darkest corners and letting them see the light through others’ eyes. Hiding places disappear no matter how hard you look for them. When you are up, the façade is far away. When you are down, the facade is even farther away.

Life on display. Slight of hand in character. Lettering in the school of the living. Stories that take you right along with them and taunt you to speak of what you see, feel, hear, touch, and know. Show it to the world. Figure it out in tandem with others you have not met but that get to see you naked. Unfiltered. Unfettered.

It is daunting. Less and less once you surrender to the Muses. It intimidates. Less so than silence. Silence is where you feel. Writing is where you speak. Reading is where you learn. Thinking about what you write is much safer. Not writing at all is death. The choice to bury your gift on an unmarked map to treasure turning dust. I write because death is for later and silence is for cowards. Speaking passes. Writing remains to be seen. What I write remains to be seen.

There are many windows in my soul. Some have pains in them. Others look out on wide vistas of amazing beauty. The rooms in my soul that do not have windows actually do have windows. Peek through the walls where I think to hide. Hiding is unspoken things. Come look in the zoo as my animal shows itself. Don’t be afraid. It would turn on itself before it turned on you. Hurt is best kept inside and torn to shreds by the one who birthed it. No one can hurt me as well as I can hurt myself. My words hurt sometimes. Healing hurts sometimes. My words scare me more and more because there are so many more in there than I realized. Into the fray I go.

Open the window. It might get pretty hot in here. Likely to be pretty dang windy too. Tis the Season.