today cyn texted to ask how yesterday went, and when I moved to type an answer tears sprang into my eyes. I’ve always compartmentalised what I said to people. I talk to Natassia about books; Darrelle about movies; my brother about American politics. Things we’ve talked about before, that I know they’re interested in. But that leaves so many gaps where things vitally important to me go unsaid. That’s why sometimes I like to meet people that I haven’t seen in a while, because for a little bit as you work to re-establish that conversational ground you can strike out on as many paths as you think of, some of which people you see every day might not think to ask.
But this is so much my own fault. I realised that when I received letters within a week of each other stressing that I could share whatever I wanted with the writers at any time. I’ve always kept my troubles to myself and choked on them in the quiet. I think I’m worried about what they might think of me. See how fearful and selfish and needy I am. How little I want to dwell in my own mind. How little I know of myself as a result.