I want to write

I want to write and put in order the terribly confusing thoughts in my mind. But I am afraid to put them down in black and white. That would mean confronting them, accepting them as mine, born from me.

How can I let that happen? How can I irrefutably allow them that distinction?

I must hide my thoughts; glance at them only furtively making sure that no one knows what I am thinking.

Thoughts can be very dangerous, one must think a hundred times before indulging in them and a thousand before revealing them to anyone else.

Why you ask I feel this way? You feel I am paranoid?

Let me tell you then, I had thought of, created in my dreams a life filled with love and laughter.

Honesty, benevolence, goodwill, a broad approach to life and the living all had a place under the sun in that world.

It was all very nice, very beautiful. But then I destroyed it.

Know how?

I shared it with people I thought were companions. Those people listened, nodded their heads and smiled as if convinced with all of it and wanting to share, make it their own.

Then I gave over the reins to them, secure in the thought that my world and me are safe in their hands.

They picked up axes and hammers and broke it all to pieces.

And told me I was a fool to even dream such dreams, think such thoughts.

So now I am afraid to dream, to think, to write.