Friday, August 16, 2019

another post I don't plan to pubish

I was looking through my drafts and found a ton of posts I never published. I wrote them just for me. Yes, I haven't written much in a long time. I've written professional blogs for work, at least my alter ego has; but Lacey Reah has been on hiatus, practically suicidal.

I speak metaphorically of course. When I say "suicidal" I mean that I've been thinking of killing this alias for a while. I've thought of taking my books off the market and starting all over again under a different name.

Of course, I haven't killed her, haven't killed myself. I've just been hiding under a rock. I've been writing, just not publishing. I'm an introvert. I can't stand too much attention. I love to write, but networking and marketing take a lot out of me because its the opposite of the solitude I crave. I wish I wasn't such a loner by nature. I have had to work more lately too and I've been too overwhelmed to write fiction. I'm sorry.

But for the few fans that are still out there, I'm publishing one of my personal entries, one I never had the intention of publishing.

It was dated 12/30/18. I look at it now and wonder why I stopped publishing my thoughts.
I'm putting it out there now.

I might put out more personal, not meant for publication pieces in the future.

Hi diary,

These days, you're everywhere, a journal in my bag, a notebook by my bed, a draft in my inbox, a draft in my blog, a letter I don't send.

I don't even try to organize you, which just reflects more and more where my mind is. That is, if you are a reflection of my mind. The sad part is, if I want to publish a part of you, like the passages of the novel and book I was looking to write, it'll be a bitch trying to retrieve those notes.

You are not for organizing. You are for the part of me I can't restrain. I should be doing something else right now. I have a deadline, but I can't. I'm too tired, too overwhelmed. So I turn to you, the chaos of my mind. You help me calm it. You are me. You are God. You are the great spirit.

Last night I dreamed I was dancing with Lucifer.
He said he'd dance with me in such away that I'd forget I ever hated ballet.
He said Tuesdays were a great day for change.
It bothered me. I wish I knew what it meant.

I'm glad to be maturing, yet sometimes I don't know who I am anymore. I sometimes feel I'm the real me when I'm vulnerable and forced to write to you. This is when I'm at my worst, but its also when I'm at my best. it's when my soul comes out. Yet, why won't I open this side of me up to anyone else? Why hide it if its so great?

I wonder if there's a point when a dancer has danced too much; a time when the dancer no longer knows herself. She is just body and choreography. She feels like a puppet on a string, forced to move a certain way. Who is she besides the body and movement? What is beyond that?

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