storytelling in reverse

Words have not been coming to me lately. 
I've lost count of how many times I've bought yet another notebook, telling myself that
this is the one that will connect my synapses to my pen.
Picking up one of them now, I see my own handwriting spelling out- a little too heavy on the imperative- 
Just Write (-whatever-) !
 
Writing is usually the way I process thoughts, emotions, problems.
On a good day, whatever is swirling around in my head can be caught on a page, 
its content dissected, catalogued and - if I am lucky- understood.
It has always fascinated me,
the way some people can instantaneously identify what's going on inside them,
blurting out precise descriptions of a complicated set of chemical, neurological, emotional responses.
For some reason I need space and time to wrap my head and heart around what they mean.
And not being able to write has left me feeling disonnected; suspended in between.
 
I just finished reading Brené Brown's book 'Rising strong' *
It reminded me of the power the stories we tell ourselves have over our lives.
How our mind is so proactive that when lacking information, it simply invents things.
And we become collateral of our own fiction.
Words are spells, and spells can do both good and evil. We use them to make meaning,
to make sense of abstractions, to tell others that we love them or that we are leaving them.
 
But I also hide behind them.
Maybe writing is easier than feeling because of the distance?
Intellectualizing allows me to gloss over the uglier, rawer parts, leaving neatly processed prose
or the occasional panicked poem behind.
I reach for one of my notebooks and its frontpage proclaims - knowingly- 
Avec les mots on ne se méfie jamais suffisamment- one is never careful enough with words.
 
What if, during all these months of alleged writers block, 
the ugly, the raw and the messy have all seeped into me, effectively calling my bluff?
Maybe the important thing is not telling my story,
but what the story I have been telling says about me?
 
I too am not a bit tamed, 
I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world
                                                               -  Walt Whitman.
 
 
* If you don't know Brené Brown, go watch her TED-talk immediately 

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