Words Unspoken

I have so much to say. Seriously. I think I may just burst. How inconvenient it is that no one is awake for me to talk to. How frustrating it is that even if there was I doubt I would know where to start. But I need to talk to someone. I have a desire to answer questions. To explain myself in every matter. To describe events. To express emotions and intimate feelings. I want to share my dreams, my wants, my desires. I want to convey my fears, my insecurities and my shortcomings. I want to leave nothing unsaid. I want someone to know me. All of me. Know everything I've ever done. Know the reasons why I am who I am. I want to let someone know how I feel at this exact moment. I want someone to be interested in my well-being. But how could I ask that from any single person? Who has the time? Who has the desire?

When I was 13 I wanted to write a book. So I started writing. I wrote over 100 pages but I deleted most of it in a spurt of anger. Sometimes I regret it. It said so much. But oh well. I can never get it back. I kept some of it. Two pieces. Here's a part of one:

The rain splattered to the ground. The trees trembled as God's gentle whisper blew through their leaves. Lightning struck, thunder rumbled, as the tears from heaven fell harder to the ground. I stood outside my front door staring at the wonder that stood before my eyes, felt His whisper caress my face. The beauty of a summer storm embraced me warmly. I felt a sensation inside; I wanted to break away. I wanted to leave the life I had and flow as easily as the storm did. I wanted to cry; cry until somebody answered. I wanted to scream; scream until someone heard. I wanted to smile, but my heart would not let me. I wanted to be the rain and the thunder; I wasn't. I stepped into the storm, sorrowed, knowing this was the only way I could be part of it. I walked away from the prison I call a home, walked away from the life I had, dreading my return.

Mind you I was only 13. It's no masterpiece. But they're words that still have meaning for me today. Eight years later and really, how different am I from that kid who went home every single day from school and took out a knife and used it on my skin? Vastly, actually. But at the same time, not too much. I still want to cry. I still want to scream. I still want to smile. I still want to break away.