Often times when I go back and read the things that I have written, I feel as though the words belong to someone else. As if the pen in my hand was writing for my subconscious. The thoughts and feelings are mine. I feel them, I know they are my words, but it is as if I can read them as a stranger. A person who has never seen them before. Someone set apart from the words. I feel them with complete empathy. I feel them since I have lived them and yet I feel like I can read them like a stranger who has never seen the words before.
This is a complete mystery to me, and I wonder if other writers feel this way when they write. Do they feel like the words once released from their intellectual prison are now no longer theirs? I feel like my words are here to share, and yet I feel them as mine and as someone else’s. I am sure that makes no sense at all.
At one point during my reading I will feel the memories of what I am reading. The moments of creation. The other part of me hurts or feels joy for the writer. I want to reassure myself that everything is going to be okay. Or cheer myself on when things are great. It can be a really odd feeling. I don’t have multiple personalities. I am not crazy, nor have been tested, so perhaps that isn’t totally true. I just know that writing comes from core. I need to share it, and when I share it, sometimes I feel like I am sharing it with myself too.
Perhaps my subconscious is communicating with my self about life. So it comes out sometimes as a mystery to me when I read the words that I have penned.
I may never know. But at least I can come here and let the crazy out.
Thank you as always for listening to my crazy musings. Even I don’t understand them sometimes.