I have laid bare my feelings to strangers a number of times, mostly here and my column in the NST four years ago. To my friends, sometimes. I think Comot and I spoke quite a lot in the two weeks I was staying with her, about personal things we seldom touch. About relationships, family issues, stuff. It felt good, I saw it as another sign how we have matured.
It can be scary sometimes when I have people come up to me and say, “I like your writing.” An old neighbour, the mother of an acquaintance, my Mum’s friends. It means that they’ve actually read my stuff. Some may judge, form opinion about me. Or not.
Nowadays, I’m churning out words for work, rather than for myself. I sometimes feel like writing, but in the end I just keep it to myself. My offline journal is full of notes for articles, very few annotations on what’s on my mind at any given time.
It took an unexpected message a few days ago to get me to write this entry. That and an interview with an artist who is having his first exhibition. It doesn’t make much sense but at least the words are coming out.