Hey, let me in you on a little secret—I don’t write about everything. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.
You see, I barely write about anything I experience at all. I can’t put words to things I don’t understand, and I understand very little. Everything anyone sees is a glimpse, as if out of a window on a stormy evening.
So, when I recently started to talk about love again, it worried a few friends. Of course, it should. If history is any indication, it doesn’t go well for me when that happens. The funny thing is that they don’t understand because they don’t know our secret.
I can write about it now because I understand what I felt. It’s the pile of considerable paperwork that I’m only beginning to sift through. What have I been doing alone, you ask? That is what I’ve been doing. I’ve been reading between the lines of every moment, finally, and understanding what happened.
So, now, when I think about everything, I spill. I spill like someone who has not spoken for too long. I spill like the glass of wine that once fell out of my hand and smashed against the tiled floor. I spill like the drop that managed to escape the glass as it hit and shattered, thinking it had a better fate for itself, as it landed on the white wall, stuck, forever.
I’ve been moving like a well-oiled complex system of gears which has just started to move, cog-in-cog. As if it was stuck because of a stubborn, broken piece of metal in the corner, hiding away slyly. As if the piece just fell out of its own, exhausted with its pointless mission.
I’ve pumped words about love out lately because I finally managed to patch the little holes on my heart, here and there. It’s all as good as new. So, I will keep the words coming. You see, now that I talk about it all, they’ll know all of it. They’ll know everything that happened years ago.
But I hope you can keep this little secret of ours. That writing is a craft for those who are terribly slow. It’s always running behind life as it happens. I hope I can count on you. Don’t tell them that they don’t know what they don’t know. Maybe, someday I’ll spin words about what’s happening now.
Until then, mum’s the word.