What words have not been before, but will be soon.

A well made house. A word. A song.At a certain point I have to step back and ask myself why I write. Because I can’t speak quick answer.it’s gets everything out of my head. I don’t feel so alone. I don’t understand the world, and it helps me simplify things so I can begin to understand them. How I experience the world is very different than how other people do, and writing it down makes it more real and less fragile.

I become real when I write. if it’s all inside, the n no one can see what it is, what I am, and even if no one else reads what I am, then at least I have a written fragment of what I am, what I want to be, what I mean to be, what I could be.

I’ve spent most of my time writing how I am, and how I have been. The avoidance of years of making myself reality has been condensed into a period of intense writing about it now. Of wondering what could I have been.

Like many artists, like many girls, like many boys, I am still trying to break my way out of the silence that I imposed out of safety. Writing is a way to break out from behind that harsh grey wall that had become all I was and all I saw. This wall is still there, and it severs my tongue so much of the time. If my tongue won’t work, then maybe my hands will.

I was having a conversation with a friend last night, and she asked me “So, what have you been writing about in your blog?” And I was shocked and stumped and kind of insulted. Not because I expect her to spend the time reading what I had to say….actually, yes, I do expect someone who calls herself a very good friend of mine to read what I have to say. It’s not asking that much. I love reading my friend’s blogs, and the little poetic love letters we leave each other on facebook. I understand and respect the fact that we can say things in writing that we aren’t easily able to express in words. Conversation doesn’t usually tend to the instantly poetic, especially mine. So, I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a friend to take five minutes a day to read the words that I am currently devoting myself to.

To be asked to speak in a reductionist, condensed way about what I’ve been writing about is such a brush off. It’s a sign that the person doesn’t understand, and most likely, doesn’t seem to care why I feel the need to write, and why I choose to express myself in ways other than conversation.

I am not a storyteller. I keep and thrive on images, and memories, sounds and sensations. Having a conversation about a colour, a particular shade of blue, and how it almost has a taste is not something that comes up often. How I experience the world, the language that I’m fascinated by can easily come out of the mouths of very few extraordinary speakers, those wise few who write with their tongues instead of fingers.

I don’t know how to get what I need from conversation. I’m not interested in people’s wild and crazy stories all the time. I want to know what their hearts are saying, and how the sound of loud traffic out the living room window affects them.

Sometimes writing is as difficult as speaking ,sometimes I don’t have anything to say, in any situation. Others, I have a mouth that will not be stopped, saying everything that is fleeting through my mind, the strangenesses and quirkinesses alike.

I like people who speak oddnesses, even if it is not at the depth to which they are capable of going. My two roommates, Jo and Amanda, are oddnesses, and although we don’t sit around philosophizing, we understand each other in a strangely fundamental sort of way. Our senses of humor match.We don’t judge the things that come out of each other’s mouths, because we appreciate the individuality that each of us contains, and that we are willing to put out in the open.

Each day, as I go on, my life gets further and further from the downtown of the city. I live within the city boundaries, but my cities is becoming different than the one I have always known and disliked.I refuse to go to clubs, and I do not want to go into bars. The noise, the closeness of people, so many lonely and strange, loud loud people is something I can’t even pretend to tolerate anymore. I’m 25, and while most people are out living their crazy twenty something years in a haze of glorious sex and way too much alcohol and an assortment of other party favors, I’m sitting at home ( well someone else’s home) on a Friday night writing about how bars aren’t my scene, but writing is.

What I can’t seem to get across to some people is that my dislike for intensive socializing doesn’t make me boring and predictable, doesn’t make me a waste of this youthful life, but it’s how I choose to live. I’d be much happier on a farm somewhere, with a piano and a garden, a couple of close, good friends nearby, and I coffee shop or two in town with live music most nights of the week.

I love people, and I love being around people that I click with, people that understand where I’m coming from, and don’t spend all of our time together looking perplexed and uncomfortable. I make people uncomfortable, I bore people. I’m not witty on command, my words come out all jumbled all the time, and if someone doesn’t have the heart and time to focus the beautiful mess that I am, then I don’t want to be around them.

I’ve spent so much time feeling inferior to people, and I have a couple people in my life that I always feel inferior to, people whose very presence instigates a judgment of myself. I feel no acceptance when I’m with them, just unfulfilled expectation that I’m not even interested in pursuing. But I’m o good at saying goodbye. I’m no god at hurting other people, at hurting myself.

Then I start to fear being alone my whole life, having nothing but my own words to come home to, to comfort me. Such a fright. A quick flight, a long bus ticket to god knows where to get myself away from myself. I forget that I’ve been alone all this time, and that it’s only been in those moments when I’ve felt guilty and strange about being alone that it’s been unhappy. That only when I live under the mysterious expectation of needing a man, a husband, a wife, a woman, a lover, that I’m unhappy.

I want all of these things, but I want them as myself, as my quiet and brave, fierce and bold self, not as some vapid bar star who can’t even find her own way home in her bikini wax and too high heels. I don’t want to change myself for fake love.

When I refused to go out to a bar, for the hundredth time, my friend called me predictable, which I put into the same category as boring, no fun, loser, has no life, socially unfortunate, lifeless, pity worth. I’ve seen myself as all of these things, but I don’t need my so called friends to use my vulnerabilities against me.

I’m looking for kindness, for a space in which I can sit with myself quietly, and feel as though my life is as full as it could get, while knowing there is so much more.

Sometimes I sound like a self help book. I’m often redundant. Nobody wants to hear about our traumas in conversation. It’s not polite to talk about our huge harsh feelings. So, either I talk out loud to myself all the time, which I do, while wondering up and down my fabulous pacing hallway, or I write it out, repetitively and both wistfully and cathartically.

I love to dance, but I like to choose the music I dance too. I don’t like most techno, dance music. I have a very particular taste in hip hop that doesn’t usually get played in clubs. I like being in place where people dance for joy, not to get noticed. I love to dance with a group of friends in my living room, impromptu dance sessions, or well articulated processions of oddly choreographed movements that speak out bright.

I like other quiet people who come alive in small spaces, who haven’t found their right places yet, who struggle, and live in the struggle. Alone, in my home, with my words and songs, I am strong, I am learning to dictate myself back to myself.

I’m just not ready to be in the world at large. I’m having my cloistered moment. I walk down the street and feel strange, feel like everyone is looking at me. Judging me, finding me strange and uncomfortable, ugly and stupid. Dorky and unflattering, the kind of person that nobody wants around.

This is why I write: at the end of the day, I want myself around, and have to find a way not to lose myself in it all, in all the sinking quicksand, the drowning pools of not good enough. The hipster lives shrugging off vulnerability, the business kids out to play with numbers they don’t even like for the sake of being normal. I want to keep my strangeness, I want to define my strangeness, my hope, all the things I shut away and let die. I’ve been dying for 25 years. On the porch of death, drooping daisies held upright, nearly. Every time I was in the word was a thick stab to my gut, a twist and watch me bleed until the bruises have swollen up each broken blood vessel unable to reduce again. I’m quite bright with scars. If you know how to see them.