Don't know my secrets, I think to the glowing box.
No more talk about bondage, or dildos, or Korea, or work, or life, or laughter or death, or taxes. I'll be a good girl with a good public image and will be renowned for what I don't say rather than what I do. Safety in boredom, privacy in publicity of a different sort.
Where is the fun in that? I think. But then fun isn't safe and what if I can't get a JOB?
The latter question no longer bothers me, only in a random sort of way where I think of having a J.O.B. as a placeholder for all the other things I'm doing. And I'm always doing something. The wheels are always spinning in the hamster of my mind.
I'm pent up though. Words that build like magma in my mind, waiting for a thin piece of crust to spill out of, to break, explosion, release. But I keep it in, hold it back. For what? Who am I trying to protect myself from? What privacy?
I'm not a fan of resolutions as they all seem to go by the wayside. But I am a fan of words. Perhaps I like hearing myself talk, or reading myself write, or filling the interwebs with as much hot noise as I can. I want to be prolix and prolific. Unafraid.
I am standing naked and exposed on a cliff of my own making. I take a plunge. I wonder how hard I will hit when I reach the ground.