Paranoia Strikes Deep

I get randomly paranoid about sharing things that I write. Or create in any sort of way. I feel like someone's going to steal one sentence and turn it into something completely different, but that one sentence, or paragraph will be my words floating out there somewhere in cyber space. Agh. There I've said it. The thing about fears is that once you admit them they no longer have power over you. Right? At the same time I have another fear that I'm going to end up like Emily Dickenson. That I'm going to die one day and my family or relatives or neighbors are going to discover hundreds and hundreds of poems, essays, stories, and characters that I wrote but never shared with anyone. I guess it's about time to decide which fear is worse. Either way parts of me are getting stolen.

It's tragic to think about someone living a secret life. Of paintings or quilts or music or words that have been tucked away into a secret corner of their life. Things that have been created that no one else gets to see or hear or read. I imagine if I knew someone who was creating all of this stuff that just gets piled and filed away but never shared I would be so sad. I would want to look at all of it. I'd want to rifle through all of it for days and weeks and years on end until I knew every part of this person. And then, after I'd seen and listened to and read it all, I would give him or her a big hug and say "Wow I love you even more now." I wouldn't think he or she was crazier. I wouldn't be more afraid of him. I wouldn't want to have less to do with him. But instead, I would want to spend more time with him and hug him more and look into his eyes more.

Because the people who mean the most to me are the ones who seem so crazy. The fanciful dreamers who live wildly and on edge. The ones who speak the truth. And who feel emotions incredibly deeply. And if those are the people I love the most, then why am I so afraid of admitting that I am indeed one of these people. One of the crazy people. We all know that quote by Jack Kerouac. I'll list it below:

I mean it's so great someone made a magnet out of it. And if we believe this. If we all truly feel this and know it's true then why are we all running from it? Why do I keep running so far out ahead of who I am? It's time to admit both to myself and to the world that I am indeed a wide-eyed, fanciful, exaggerated, deeply sensitive, and indeed crazy woman.

Love.