I usually have my finger on the pulse of my own soul. I can tell you at any given moment how I am. What I'm deconstructing or recreating, or what's unraveling or healing me. I can see it, think about it, talk about it, analyze it, share it, even obsess over it. Lately, though, I feel like a blindfold has been slipped over this part of me, and I only get a peek underneath from time to time.
It doesn't feel good to be blind.
Under normal circumstances, I'm hyper-aware of social cues and mores. I can read body language from half a block away, and I know intuitively who wants to be talked to on the subway and who's praying to be left alone. But over and over again in the last month or more I've just stumbled awkwardly through life, certain that I'm understanding others and being understood, only to find messes in my wake. Then I try to clean up the messes, only to make them even worse.
It's a precarious feeling, this creeping suspicion that maybe I don't know what to say and to whom to say it. That perhaps my filter is broken. In my community and on my blog I say some vulnerable things pretty publicly. Not to mention the true stories I tell on stage, which I consider my most private venue. It makes me feel quiet, I guess because I'm growing afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. Not only am I not prepping a story for tonight's slam in the city, I'm hesitant to even talk to people in line. I have blog posts asking to be written, but I know as soon as I hit "publish", all hell could break loose at the rate I'm going. (I'll probably unpublish this post by noon.)
The words are slowly turning off like a faucet. Now I'm blind and mute. Maybe this is just a result of feeling over-exposed. Maybe it's something that I'll get to the bottom of, or that I'll muddle my way through. Perhaps my courage is on vacation--I don't know. But I think I'll just be with my photos this week, and a few safe friends. I hope the words return soon.