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Read After Burning
In a perfect world, I’d never write again. Alas.
“The language was thoughtful, but when I stripped away the beautiful words and praise, which I don’t actually need, it didn’t change how I felt.”
— Anonymous
They’re just fucking words, man. They’re how I make my money and make my way in life. They’ve gotten me in rooms I’ve never been in. Rooms I didn’t belong in. They’re how I’ve won love and affection. They’ve taken me places I’ve never gone, and gone places I’ll never be. They’re how I meet people, how I bring them close, how I change their minds.
They are also my therapy. They’re a way of telling my story. Of ensuring I’m not misunderstood or forgotten. Of getting things right. Of proving I care. Of getting myself out of my messes. Of correcting for what I’ve missed, and compensating for what I lack. I got good at words to make sense of big feelings, unwind, and articulate big thoughts. To learn. To understand. To explain. They’ve served me well. They’ve had to — for who would I be without them?
Well, truth be told, I don’t know. I wouldn’t be less smart — no, that’s what reading is for. I wouldn’t be less kind — no, that’s what my heart beats for. But I would be less…
