Writing To You Is A Risk
Writing to you is a risk. After all, you might not like what I write.
I’d hate to put ideas in your head, but it’s possible (since anything is possible in the quantum field) that you might find the material to be petulant, melodramatic, inconsequential, dull, et cetera.
You might not like what I write. And as a result, you might not like me! I’d hate for that to be the case. But if it is, I’d be willing to despise you back, so at least we can get on the same page. (Keep me posted?)
Either way, writing to you is a risk. Even if you like my words – and half-like me by association – you might learn a thing or two you didn’t know. The view of me you’ve had till now could crumble like an ancient stone wall during an unforeseen earthquake on a sunburned hill in Greece.
I must confess that I’m sort of loud in the kitchen – I bang things around, drawers and utensils and such, without total awareness (note: I am working on this).
I’m terribly impatient, especially as it pertains to west coast drivers and a winding post office line (note: I am working on this, too).
I have a hard time admitting I am wrong – which seems understandable, given that I am always right. Right?
Buckle up for another shattering admission: More than one man has called me “crazy.” In my mind, this has always been a synonym for “passionate.” Passionate about the project, the friendship, the lasagna… isn’t that a good thing? Maybe you don’t agree. So again, writing to you is a risk.
I cannot promise that, in one post, I won’t mention I think the name Priscilla is ugly. If your mom’s name is Priscilla, you’ll likely feel offended. (Sorry.) And if you refrain from unfollowing me on Instagram, whenever my profile shows up during your nightly scroll, you’ll forever remember me as the girl who dislikes your mom’s name…
And I doubt you’ll invite me to your holiday party. Or your wedding. Or your baby shower. Or any other major life event. When all along, we could have been best friends – the kind who become like sisters, who talk on the phone for hours while drinking British tea and eating biscuit-y cookies – had I simply refrained from divulging that “Priscilla” stinks.
Do you finally see my point? Writing to you is a risk. But what I risk by not taking the risk of writing to you is: Remaining liked but never seen. Safe but forgotten. And worst of all, mad at myself.
I can tolerate you being mad at me, but I cannot tolerate me being mad at myself. So here I am, diving off the cliff, jumping out of the plane, [insert any other pedestrian, risk-related metaphor here].
If I haven’t scared you off, I do hope to see you again.