I wandered around WordPress today and found some of my old blogs. I deleted them long ago, but I still have access to the posts that I didn’t delete from the blogs themselves. My fragile emotions spill onto the screen now and then, and I often clean them up. It’s hard to leave some things floating in the ether. They belong in my tin can. Or at least tethered.

I enjoyed reading the old posts. I was able to see into the past as though I unearthed an inside-out crystal ball. I was able to read my writing as an outsider and introduce me to myself. I didn’t find the first blog, though. All those mumblings are buried somewhere. I recall a few of its posts that I wish I’d held onto.

I sometimes feel that too much of myself gets put on display. It’s not as though my old self has changed a whole lot or that I have ditched those parts of me. I think the problem is that too much gets too far from my grasp, as though the emotions are carried out to sea. My harness stretches only so far. And yet, after reading those posts, I see that there is nothing to be concerned about. If anything, those old writings season the soup.

. . . . . .

I took a few sips today of a variety of soups. I plopped myself right back into the thick of stories, or in two cases, thoughts. One from a brain that thinks in complete sentences, and another from a brain with way more scattered and interesting thoughts. I saved a couple excerpts on a screen because they were either words I felt I could incorporate into my own written thoughts or words that I read in someone else’s: a chip of Mr. Bloom’s cubated masterpiece involving nature’s great dislike of vacuums.

And I got caught up again in Jane. Me. Jane. I still struggle with why Jane Eyre is so familiar to me. Intimate even. Why I see so much of myself in her, that stubborn emotional child— an obsevation I made long ago, but there’s a deeper part of the character that projects herself onto me, or vice versa.

. . . . .

My Saturday night bubble is leaking air, to my dismay. It’s nearly 3 am, again, and I should probably not upset my sleep pattern more than I already have. Summer vacation isn’t here just yet.



Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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