I expect to be heard when I speak, to be listened to when I utter, to be read when I write.
But, when I blog…
I blame the power of publishing. This ability I have to indulge in textual espionage –exposing the secrets, thoughts, plots of others—goes exponentially beyond the power of words.
Who among my friends would expect me to write about the perpetual death of one of us? We are 38, 39. We are too young to die. And yet one of us insists on doing it.
This first line demands to be written, and so do the ones to come tumbling after it. It’s how I think—on the page. My life in narration.
How else does a friend calling at 2 in the morning to talk about her dying relationship as opposed to her dying body make sense to me?
Maybe it’s not supposed to.
Maybe I’m supposed to just listen. Listen without writing. Listen without blogging. Listen without understanding that we are 38, 39. We are too young to die. And yet, one of us insists on doing it.