Abandoned

Did I ever tell you why I left?

I know I didn't. That was a rhetorical question. Thinking about it now leaves an unsavory taste in my mouth. A mix of candy and tart lemonade. Too much of everything. There's no straight or honest way to broach it, and it's like so many parts of me. Conflicted, truthful, dishonest.... a contradiction.

I could write about it. I guess I've already decided I will, and I am aware of the need. I have no one else to write it to again. In a sense, I'm alone. That's it probably. I need to vent --- in a public but less-than-open way. Who knows why I can't just tell someone.

I feel in so many ways that I am going back in to the closet only to come out again. It's this consistently inconsistent manner of dealing with myself and my sexuality. Nothing is so open, but nothing is so deep that it escapes a day of conscious thought.

That's why I stopped writing maybe. I felt that anonymous blogging became too secretive. A place that no one knew me and therefore served as an unhealthy outlet for my thoughts I couldn't otherwise share. I was back in the closet.

I don't know why, but I need to write. A perpetual state of coming in and going back out again.

That's scary and freeing.