I write. I write all the time. Never on paper, never with fingers to a keyboard. Not a finger swiping across a screen, not even that. I write in my head. I writes pieces of fiction. Words where I feature into the story, rather than the words I carefully craft for others.
I write for myself, about what matters to me, but only in my mind.
I imagine that I write poetic text messages. Throwing in the perfect emoji or meme. I am the best friend to have. I remember birthdays and not to bring up that douche you hooked up with that one time. I write frequently and try to keep you up to date with my life without overloading you. Never nosey or rude or disloyal. The best friend you’ve ever had.
I write words to be admired, exulted and celebrated. To be recognised for the fair and wise person I think I am. I give myself a pat on the back. I really am quite clever.
I write but never on a screen. I write in my head so you can’t correct me. So you can’t water down my words, smooth over the rough patches, the edges, the truth. You can’t call my vulnerability weakness, naïvety or stupidity. You can’t disrupt the way I see myself. I can stay safe.
Until today. Today I hit publish.