I wanted to write. About what, I don’t really know. But that’s what I wanted to do. Since I was very small, my little hands would scribble words down on paper. It seemed like an important task. It seemed like something that I had to do.
There’s something about writing thoughts down that makes me feel real, feel relevant. Even if it just means that I’m making myself feel relevant. My memory can be here and there, so if I write it down, then I know I’ll remember it.
It’s there, on the paper and I don’t have to second guess myself. There’s a record of it, a reliable source to look back on. My own encyclopedia.
I’ve started writing down memories from my childhood, typing them up, and printing them out. I have a binder of them tucked away. It felt like a safe thing to start doing. If I write down all I can remember now, then one day when my memory fails me, there will still be a record of the life that I lived so that I can share it with my daughters. If they’re interested in it of course.
But writing to share with others is scary. My voice sounds different in my head than it does when I relay to paper. Do you ever feel that way? Or can you accurately portray what your trying to say? But at the same time, isn’t that nonsense? Because whomever is reading the words won’t hear the voice that I hear. They’re going to hear the voice that they attach to their version of me. Or they’re going to hear their own voice.
I have journals upon journals in an old trunk. I’ve saved my journals for as long as I can remember. I know there has been a few that have gotten lost along the journey, lost in a box or accidentally thrown away. For the most part, I’ve kept them all. They’re all a mix of poems, journal entries, letters, art, scrap booking, and even recipes I stowed away for later. I need to dig them out, it’s been a long time since I’ve read over the musings of a young Kayla. Maybe I’ll share them, maybe not. That sounds like it takes a lot of courage.
It’s Friday night and I’m in my office; it’s mostly dark except for the chili pepper lights and a tobacco flower scented candle. I’m wondering why I started this blog in the first place. What was the purpose? To write I think, to give myself a chance to be brave for a moment and share my written word.
I’m not proud of it though. It’s nothing extraordinary or life changing for anyone. There’s nothing special or different about it, it doesn’t contain any material that someone else hasn’t already written about.
So why do we do this? Why are there thousands and thousands of blogs in which people write along the same premise? What is the point? To share another point of view? But why? People are often looking for something that will reinforce the beliefs they already have. How often does someone read something and allow it to make them step back and rethink their position on something?
I don’t like the idea of fame, that scares me actually. I don’t like attention on myself. But I want to share. I want to read what other people have to say because studying how and what other people think it interesting to me. I’m not easily influenced by other opinions but I like to know how they got to them and why they are there. That’s why I like to read blogs and articles, and why I like to stay away from the news. The news gives me a headache. It feels detached and robotic, untrue and malevolent. I want facts from the outlets that are expected to give them. I’d watch the news if it weren’t so wrapped up in agenda.
I like honesty, realism, and to know all my options. I want to know the root of something to better understand it. I want to know the why, the how, and everything in between. I want to be able to ask questions and research and understand. I like facts and straightforwardness.
I don’t really know where I was going with this tonight, but that’s fine. It feels good to just let the words flow out of my weird misshapen fingers (LOL)
❤ La Lady Valdez