Let's Talk About Something Else

 There's a contradiction somewhere in my ribs. The fear of writing about things that I have moved past. A desire to relay my memories. Events of importance. Moments of truth and beauty. 

A deep fear of being misread.

I don't care about these things anymore beyond only referencing their importance in my history. Their track marks upon my life.

It's 1989. It's 1995. It's 1999. It's 2002. It's 2005. It's 2009. Its 2015. It's every year since and it's right now. Some years tied to others and some only stains on the canvas and I know many more are coming. They might lead to patterns. They might form an image. They eventually all explain

me.

But scars aren't wounds. 

The memory isn't the moment.

I am not who I was.

I have had such a habit of reporting immediately, that reflection has become alien in regards to my writing. "I feel this now" is not the truth. Wounds aren't scars. Moments aren't memories. Who I was is not who I am. 

What is it that I find so difficult about reflection? Where does this fear come from? An act of always being okay? Of always being right? Of always trying to be strong?

Or is it embarrassment? Shame? A fear of just being misunderstood?

I don't feel free.

I don't feel the freedom to speak or explore my thoughts or feelings, my history or my future. I'm not allowed it.

They're just scars. 

Memories.

Someone else entirely.

Let's talk about something else.