It’s a long, dark walk into the night to find the place where you can spill yourself. It’s high and hard to climb. It’s where you exist as:
but where you no longer belong to yourself.
First person exposes you. The wind blows harder here.
But see? I did it again and drew back. Hid myself behind some theoretical “you.”
It puts a distance between the real me and the real you, you know.
‘Second person’ is the third person in the room, in experiential writing. Second person stands between you and me.
But I digress. And heaven forbid.
Tonight my fingers are shivering over the keys. I quake in my shoes at the idea of exposing myself again.
I ebb and flow with ecstasy over creating, and certainty of failure.
My toehold slips again.
Why didn’t King Kong hesitate? He just rocketed up the shiny metal mountain.
Leaving so many fears unanswered.