On Being Vulnerable

I suck at being vulnerable in person.  I hold my cards close to my chest in the presence of all but a very few people.  Yet, when I sit down to write, I let fly.

It’s certainly more comfortable for me, as an introvert, to be vulnerable whilst home alone in front of my tablet screen (when I get my book sold, the first fruits of the sale shall be invested in a decent laptop).  It’s still not easy to allow you, dear reader, into my head.  It’s uncomfortable like a thong that’s a size and a half too small.

But there’s a method to my madness; a reason for laying it all out for anyone who cares to click and read. 

I’m an idealist. I envision a world that accepts, holds space, and is kind.  Universally.  It’s troubling to me that the world I envision contrasts so sharply with the world that exists.  Keeping my idealism to myself won’t change that.  Living out my ideals in the world will change a little, but it’s not enough. 

So I write.  I write in hopes that my words will engender some small change in one heart, somewhere.  I write in hopes of a butterfly effect, that the gentle movement of flapping my tiny wings will create a stir in my immediate vicinity which rustles the leaves and grows into a wind which changes the weather pattern globally.   It’s a grand notion, but just maybe, if a few other dreamers flutter their wings too, that quiet wind of change will blow. 


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