Anxiety of interpretation

Once upon a time, here in the blogosphere, I would write and write and not fear that someone might deign to interpret this verborrea, might claim that there is some underlying meaning in all this, or, God forbid, a subtext that I, the simple vehicle for all such atrocities, being intimately linked, would be unable to discern.

I could spill myself out onto this virtual page, without a thought for reader reception. (There were no readers, and likely still are none). I can no longer do that, I realized last night, with finger on the trigger to publish, there are some things that I can no longer share. I have learned that the writing still eases the pain of festering wounds. But these days, I choose to weep in silence, with words falling away beneath my fingers.

I wonder (mostly to myself) of what this change consists. Perhaps it is the realization that the words that I write will fall on deaf ears, or, more likely, that they don't provoke the desired effect. Perhaps the wrong people will misunderstand me, as if there were anything really to understand in all this. So, I am writing for myself again. Storing the words inside my dear little Lucy. I wrote a story on the airplane, one that isn't about me. It is terrible, and unfinished... orphaned words that float about on the ocean swells. I am tired, though, and I am unsure of how to start writing what I have proposed to myself. I begin to think I may not be able to do it after all.