unequal.

This entry is directed toward Mark Tyson, who unfortunately gained access to this blog.

It's not fair. Really. You write, knowing that other people are going to read what you've written. You censor. You edit. I don't. I write with it firmly in my head that no one else will read this, that I can express myself in whatever way I want to. In this blog I open my heart and I don't care what it looks like or sounds like, because it's mine, and whatever I write is just for me. You get a glimpse of my heart; you get to know me in a way you probably never could otherwise - you get to hear my thoughts, the unedited murmurs of my mind. I don't have the same privilege with you.
I get to see your personality, your styles in writing, and some could argue that this is your heart. I disagree. I've caught glimpses of your heart, glimpses in quiet words and thoughts, and that is not the stem of your writing; that is not the core. That's why I say this is unequal, unfair; you can hide while I can't. Here I am unmasked, here I can pull my hair out and scream or quietly paint memories I find important, while you sit back and decide what is worth writing and what is not. I have no such scale; I simply write and see what comes out.
So this isn't fair. It makes me worried, having my heart on display and not understanding who's seeing it, who's drawing conclusions from it, who's judging it in the fairest sense of the word. Eventually I'll wear out, eventually I'll remember someone else is reading this, and I will begin to edit. I will begin to hide things, and I'm tired of hiding things. I just want to write, to write absolute nonsense or well thought out prose. I want to write one sentence entries and four page concepts. I don't want to worry how they'll be perceived; I just want to put them somewhere. I just want to write and not worry what you'll think of me.

-the writer