to all the words i never said,
…all the letters i never sent,
…all the conversations i didn’t have.
to all the words i never said, i’m sorry.
i’m sorry.
i’m here in my kitchen while i write this. making risotto. it’s 9:00 PM on Valentines day, but i said i’d finish putting these words together tonight so here i am. in my defence the risotto is almost done…
i’ve been thinking about how i show up for my writing. and how i want this year to look. and how i can make space to say the kinds of things that feel important. i often get stuck on this though: what is important? i mean, i know what feels important to me, but is it important enough.
ya know?
it’d be easier if we could tick a checklist for whether something is important. and whether it’s importance makes it “important enough” to say. it’d be easier if i could tell you in the prelude to this letter that “i googled it and found a linkedin post that told me to write X and Y, because that’s important.” it’d be easier because it would be less vulnerable.
how do we choose what is important enough to say?
i think i know the answer.
i can hear all the words inside me, all of those words i didn't say
— we don’t.
we say the shit that matters. we don’t choose what’s important and what's important enough. we say what feels important. we just fucking say it. we throw our masks off and we say the vulnerable words even if we feel exposed and a little uncomfy.
if we don’t send our art, our words, our stories, out into the world — how will we know if they’d ever have a chance to land? all these words have built up, all these stories i’ve hoarded, all this magic i’ve kept sitting on a shelf. it’s getting dusty and that musty smell is starting to set in. nobody wants to live that way.
plus, if it makes you feel vulnerable, a little uncomfy, a little exposed… chances are, it’s important. in some way. for you. for others. for the internet. for the person you walk past in the office every day.
it doesn’t matter where it lands, just that you give it a chance to land.
when i first started writing about deconstructing my religion, i did it because they were the words i needed once, and those words helped me see myself. but i also did it because i kept hearing people say these words to me, over and over: you’ve given me language for my experience.
and that’s why we share our stories, isn't it?
because they give language to our experiences. because our stories are guides. because our stories hold histories. because our stories point us back to ourselves. because we learn from one another through our stories, we are bound to one another through our stories.
art in a more general sense is the same.
art binds us. art gives us language. art helps us see ourselves. art helps us see others.
is there anything more important?
i muse these things as i write this letter and i remember that i have kept so much inside. this is a love letter of sorts, to all the words i never said. and it’s a beginning too. and a reminder. to me, to the words i’ve kept inside, and to anyone who takes the time to read this.
it’s a reminder that your story matters.
your story matters.
it’s a strong and slightly apologetic “i love you” to all the words that have been hanging in the background for some time.
i love you.
and it’s the beginning of a more honest, and slightly less inconsistent, era for your gal sharing her words and stories with the world.
to all the words i never said, i’m sorry.
to all the words i never said, i see you.
to all the words i never said, i’m ready.
and to the woman who held these words for years and years and years, thank you.
i know it felt like you were holding your breath.
you can let it out now.
let’s leave the bullshit to our culty-friends, get honest, and keep talking about the real shit.
so much love,
xx Jas