I've been thinking about writing on here. There's been so many posts I've started writing and not published. Half-baked words growing cobwebs and mold on them.
Saved drafts. Frozen thoughts, saved for later. Maybe I'll take a few out, and unthaw them, maybe make a casserole out of some of the bits and pieces of them.
Though, I'm confused as to what to write. Or if I should write at all. The other night I just scrolled through my blog entries, all the way down to 2014, reading the titles, and then clicking on posts that I wrote, but never published. Lots of saved drafts. Some stuff was quite lovely. Some halfway written. Some I published, then got terrified of my own truth, and de-comissioned a minute later. I noticed that most of the unshared posts were entries that made me feel too vulnerable, and for good reason, still do. Like little journal entries that felt a little to uncomfy at the time to share.
A saved draft. That's what the rawest parts of my soul feel like. Save that thought for later. Save feeling our feelings for later. Saved as a draft.
Bits of consciousness frozen in time.
Talents. Stillborn brain children, that were fully formed, but unable to move.
Stuck somewhere.
And yet still there.
Saved drafts.
I thought about my life.
What saved drafts are lurking there, for me to find, things I've forgotten about? Stuff that I've wanted to do, or be, but saved it in a draft for later.
It's so very easy to follow someone else's dictates, to write their stories, to dance to tunes that aren't your own. To work hard. And pat yourself on the back for doing the "right thing." at the sacrifice of locking yourself in a daft file, and saving it for later.
The problem is that you remain a draft...
Caught... Somewhere...and nowhere.
The real draft of yourself, unedited version of your raw-self saved in some random box, or folder.
Saved because deep down we know it was good, but a little too frightening to share. So... maybe later.
Problem is, when later comes, you may have forgotten about it. Or it's grown a bit outdated to be relevant.
And your adult self wonders where you stored the things you saved for later. All the drafts of the real bits of your soul, tucked somewhere hidden.
What do you love apart from your collective family or friends? What would you stop doing if you knew your role would be filled? If love, not fear was your primary motivator?
What things have you left abandoned for fear of shame?
Saved as a draft.
The rawest forms of your own truth that dare not see light of day...as they were too muchy for even you. An unmarked grave in a forgotten plot, somewhere, the markings are hardly apparent, most of us have buried so many premature drafts, that they've been lost forever from our souls, merely a blip of a memory, with no marker for us to find the way back to....only by angelic coincidences, and little reminders that kindly points you to go back to the graves, resurrect the best drafts, and breathe life into the good things that you saved for later, as they'll breathe life back into you, as they were never really dead to begin with.
The funny things was when I finally thought about perhaps writing. Or maying compiling my tidbits of writing. My upstairs computer decided to protest. It kept on loading window’s 7. Then rebooting over and over again, with, “File, not found, appearing a million times. It made me feel like I was in the matrix seeing the code.
I guess the heat finally fried its brains.
“File not found…”
Yep, me too, computer, me too.
I bought a very low storage capacity laptop to do zoom meetings on, and I guess, now to write on for the time being. I’ll have to forgo littering this post with pictures, as my pictures are between worlds, as well.
Or maybe I'll just save this draft for later...
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