Words fail me

There are things I just can't tell you, blog.

Whether they're things that I'm too ashamed to admit I have stupidly done or longings I might describe that would alienate any individual who reads them. There are things I can't describe. Like how I'm desperately feeling both the desire to disappear and the urge to be more present than ever and how those clashing feelings are turning me into a puddle of confusion. There isn't the space on these pages to transcribe the narrative that is going on at warp speed in my head. Nor is there a font or size I could choose that would truly express the significance or shockingness of the denouements of some of these garbled plot lines. There are secrets that aren't mine to tell. Or at least I'm sure they can't be mine because that's not my idea in my head or at least I was a different person when I thought it and I'm not even sure really how this person who is inhabiting me now got the password to my account. There are things too dull, too inane, too related to the bodily function (which is disfunctioning) to relate that if I told you all of them I'd bore you to sleep, even though these are the very things that keep me up at night.

In short there are too many words in me that have nowhere to go and they are ripping me apart. They seep out of my eyes at inopportune times. I built a life around words but now I want them all gone. I want the peace that must exist in the absence of language.