I won't lie, I am not going to even try to make this short.
Burning in a boonie-fire- I used to write. No, really, I used to WRITE. All the time. I had notebooks and notebooks of things. Conversations, overheard snippets while I was sitting having coffee or just wasting time, thoughts about my day, and people (because I have always felt a little disconnected, but that comes later.. maybe), profound subjects like spiritualism and religion and eternity and spinning through space as a flea on a rock and the end of the sun, and brutality (like the Holocaust), and how there are still people who starve, and the rich and the poor, and nonsensical things like "do I matter?", and "what will my legacy be?".
Things. In notebooks. Lots of Notebooks.
For the most part, I did not write with the intention or assumption that anyone, ever was going to read what I wrote. In fact, for the most part, I wrote with the belief that writing with the thought of someone else reading what your writing would cause one to guard themselves from writing EXACTLY what it was that they NEEDED to write about in the first place. And that was really the key. I believed that people who write NEED to write. Need like they need air. Need like they need a hug, and a home, and a family, and a story. They need to write, to breathe, to feel, to hurt when that is what they needed to do, to write. Flowing ink, frantic keystrokes, beating heart, flowing blood, it was all the same. Tow rite thinking of someone else, and stopping words that needed to be said, that was a tourniquet.
They, the notebooks started when I was just beginning to be. By that I mean, other forms were being lost to me. Pets and people beginning to die around me, I lost the ability for drawing the things I used to be able to draw, I was starting to feel the pressure of trying to be the version of me people saw from the outside and the me that I saw from the inside (wildly different variations, in case you were wondering... and still is). I was trying to squash my SELF into SOMETHING, some kind of variety of what I was supposed to be that was acceptable. Only a couple of my expectations were my own, and to go ahead and get this part over with I will go ahead and say, I have failed all of those things, the things I wanted for myself, but I am sure I can come back to that later.
Socially awkward, and curious, and shy, and energetic, and reliant, and easily bruised with an affect that made others believe I was callus. Wanting to make others happy and f-ing that up at every turn, and all that before I got good and into teenage years. Teenage years = apparently more disappointing to others than I can even begin to comprehend.
So, I wrote. About confusion, and not knowing left from right, and first jobs, and finally making what I thought might REALLY honestly be friends that actually LIKED me, for me, the screw up, and everything. About making plans, and taking tests to prepare for the future, and mentally discovering that I was opposed to military injection into places that don't belong to us, and my conflict knowing that my dad spent forty years recruiting for the military, and I was ready to join myself. (Huge mental volcanic earthquake that was.)
I wrote. And I had notebooks and notebooks. Those books, I now realize, were more my friends than any person I have met before, and, currently feel as though, since. And Then came the day. The day that I realzed that no one was intended to read what I had written,and no one ever would. No one, I thought, would ever care to read them. No one would ever care enough about me to be able to read all the things I had written in those books, and not judge me harshly by them. No one.... no one even knew. No one spent long hours wondering what made me tick, what things I had thought, what profound thoughts had grazed my mind, what pain I had felt when I found my Uncle's clothing after he passed away, how terrible I felt when I found out I had swung a fist at someone when they tried to wake me up, no one cared, no one would care, it my own pain and burden and thought, and occasional joy, and witticism, and no one, would ever know.
I never wrote for someone else to read, but I wouldn't have refused to let someone read them. There were some painfully childish things in those books, some growing up that had been done in the pages that would have been embarrassing, but they were the truth, from my own eyes, from my experience. Feelings and actions can be interpreted and discussed and dissected at later dates, but who you and how you feel, no matter how "incorrect" from another's vantage they are, self is self, and that is what was in those books, my self.
The concept - a "boonie-fire" (I admit, I didn't look up spelling on this so, it may well be wrong but the concept still holds true), a spirituous-religious fire in which participants write (carve) upon sticks their worries, their illnesses, their problems, their grievances. All the things that trouble them, worry their hearts, and are holding them back from embracing their days, enjoying their lives and families, making them ill and keeping them from living. They them cast their sticks, and their troubles into the fire, releasing them the spirits-god(s)-God-etc., relinquishing them to the powers that be and putting them into the faith of something outside themself. I burned my notebooks. In hope that the troubles within could be troubles no more, in hope that by not having the negative things contained in them physically present I could let them go, in hopes that all the good things would not be forgotten and that although no person would read them my words would mean something more in ash that the thoughts about how no one would read them, the wind would read them, God would read them, and they would matter more then.
It was a mistake. I erased myself. I dis-existed my own history. I can't remember things now, and I burned my connection to my own past. I cut my own pathway to myself. It was a HUGE mistake, and I have lost everyone whose nuances I had recorded in those pages. I have lost myself, I have lost them, and I can't get them back. But I have recently decided to change something. I am going to write. I spend so much time thinking. Thinking is such a lonely activity, and thinking can sometimes only make things worse, but writing, writing no matter how extraordinarily painfully honest it can be, always helps.