Pale little dumplings

I’m often embarrassed by my own writing.

Not because I think it’s bad: sometimes it is, but that’s okay with me. No, the embarrassment is over how much I reveal.

Maybe it’s not quite embarrassment I feel. Maybe it’s vulnerability.

I start to question myself.

Am I being inappropriate? Is it shameful to my own life this way? Why am I putting myself on display? Am I just seeking attention? Is there any value in this writing? Is there a point?

There’s this fear of baring myself as if it means something to do so, only to find out it means nothing.

What if I realize I’ve made a fool of myself: that what was so important and valuable to me is, in fact, small and pathetic. That my revelations are obvious. My pain is shallow. That the intensity of my experience, my emotions, so colorful, vivid, excruciatingly beautiful in my head come out, in words, as a row of pale little dumplings.

All that may be true.

Maybe I am being inappropriate. Maybe it is shameful. Who cares why I’m putting myself on display? So what if I’m seeking attention. Why does something have to be deemed valuable to be given space in the world? I don’t need there to be a point.

What if it all means nothing? What do I want it to mean? It means something to me: it means that feeling you get when you let out a big sigh and your shoulders drop. Do I need more meaning than the relief of expression? No. It’s okay if my big deals are small deals or if my revelations are obvious. And you know what? I fucking love dumplings.

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