I barely know where to start.
I’ve been on the fence about starting my book for so long. There have been at least fifty false starts and immediate cancellations. I’ve been writing anonymously for four years now. I feel an almost physical need to shed this veil now.
So much to write. So much to say. So much to record and so many stories to tell. I wonder if I’m being a complete blockhead by leaving so much unsaid waiting for some elusive Happily-Ever-After. I haven’t stopped looking for my way out, but I wonder, am I making a mistake by waiting for the end of the road? The path promises to be long- why not start now?
It’s been weighing so heavily on my head these past few weeks, that I found myself consciously avoiding writing. Inspiration would strike and I’d hesitate to jot it down. Writing- my only real voice anymore- has almost become another failed dream.
But this is NOT a dream I’m willing to give up on. I will have this. It will be my vision and my revenge all rolled into one. There are stories that I’ve never been strong enough to share, people who need to be unmasked in some way before I die, otherwise the injustice of their lifelong farce would tie me to the ground. And, sadly enough, death is an altogether too likely fact I must consider. My existence is solely because of my anonymity. Were it to be known I had begun to speak, to leak these truths out… let’s just say, Cookie would suddenly stop posting altogether.
But that’s a risk I’m willing to take. This a story that I have to tell. Holding it in is eating me from the inside, especially now that I’ve become stronger, and I’ve begun to realise the weight I’ve been carrying. These sleepless nights and constant dull heartache are hypoxia, from holding my breath. I refuse to strange myself. I refuse to let something as trivial as death strangle me.
The ending can wait. I’ll know my ending when I get there. But even till I’m done, I have a story to tell, and I won’t deny myself the relief of telling it.