Revealing What’s Underneath

You may not want to read this. Especially if you’re not on a high note at the moment. Sometimes, I just write stuff that can’t help but ruin a mood.

There’s no question, I sometimes write some pretty strange stuff. The scenes (or vignettes, as I like to call them) drift toward the utterly bizarre, from time to time. I have asked myself what I find attractive or thought-provoking about such jolting oddness. My answers range from unintelligible to unprintable. Ultimately, I think, it’s that I am both afraid of, and attracted to, the unusual. Things I don’t understand frighten and mesmerize me. I suspect I write about such peculiarities because I’m hoping someone else finds them appealing, too, and that person (or those people) will stumble upon what I’ve written and say to themselves, “hey, I’d like to have a conversation with that guy.” I understand, of course, they might insist on being armed, just in case I’m a psycho.

Seriously, I do wonder—beyond my ready explanations. What is it about the unexpected, the bizarre, the slightly twisted and bent, I find so appealing? Maybe it’s just a matter of thinking such things will catch the attention of passers-by. If I write something crazy, maybe people will stop to look and listen and find out what’s behind it.  The embodiment of loneliness, looking for an eyeball and a heart. But it could be pure, unbridled egotism; “look at me, I’m a weirdo who can shock you!” I hope that’s not it, but it could be.

I know I’ve written before about figuring out what’s “in there,” behind my masks and my protective cladding, but I always return to that. I think I have things I want to say that I’m afraid to write.  Holly, if you’re reading this, your idea of a nom de plume is under serious consideration. It’s not just fear; it’s ignorance. I don’t know, 61 years in, who I am. That’s approximately pathetic, don’t you think?

There are things about me only I know and only I will ever know. Would they shock the average guy on the street?  Probably not. But they’re private, nonetheless. Would they shock people who know me “inside out?” No, I think not, because they see my shifts in mood and attitude and expressions.  So how are they private?  Why are they private? I have to keep pieces of me for myself. I just have to. I suppose some of the pieces are too painful to share. Maybe they are just too ugly.  Only an angelic soul-mate, whose ability to keep secrets would rival a corpse, could ever know.

Pulling back the covers, as it were, could reveal nothing but a crusty scab, an ugly deformation worthy of nothing more than a bottle of alcohol and a rasp.

I guess my mood has shifted away from where it might have gone to where it is. For that, I am eternally sorry. I’ll try to do better.

I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your day. I truly did not intend it. But I’m so damn good at it, I can’t stop.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
This entry was posted in Depression, Emotion, Just Thinking, Philosophy, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Revealing What’s Underneath

  1. Millie says:

    You are a deep and complex man. And you look so benign. That paradox is part of what makes you fascinating.

  2. Holly Forrest says:

    Stop considering it, JS. Just do it. A nom de plume is enormously liberating.

  3. Jim Quixote says:

    You are not alone in your thinking, sir… And I can’t see how this could ruin anyone’s day; especially if they can relate to it… Now, get back to your deranged scrivening, monsignor!

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