Drafts.

Sometimes words get stuck between my brain, my fingers, and the rest of the world.  And then I get drafts... long-suffering, purgatorially bound drafts.  Drafts upon drafts upon drafts.  Words that float on the whiteness of a barely-blank page until they are either forgotten, lost, or put to bed as something materialized or something cast aside.

There have been about a hundred drafts of a certain nature since the 8th of November.  The need to be calm and remain rational while the rest of social media melts down prevented them from taking life.  Also, despite my general openness, some things need not be exacerbated.

Some drafts look like this:

Yesterday, while studying for two exams that I'm sure I'll fail, I found myself thinking thoughts that put me squarely in the category of 'moron' or 'simpering fool' or, worst, 'idiot woman.'  I don't particularly like those categories, but I was in them yesterday (may still be today).  Because I found myself doing what I always do: cowering.   

And making excuses. 

I psychologically abuse myself.  I tell myself that I'm not good enough; not important enough; not special enough.  And then I use that to justify the behaviors of others.
What's worse is that I then re-abuse myself and rejustify others with this impossible-to-discard banner of independence.  I made this choice.  I made all of these choices; I chose the qualities that made me not good enough, important enough, special enough.  They are mine and I keep them close to the chest. 

Others look like this:

It is humbling to have your intellect thrown in your face.

It is humbling to have a world of knowledge surrounding you, complicating you, and exhausting you.

It is humbling to be a person who is less than a person- more of a thing.

Or this:

Reading over my previous post for grammar errors (my father instilled in me a rather consuming worry over them), I began to recognize The Other Side, to name it; to give it a real space over there.   I could see it, a little, like a distant  This side is Hope, The Other Side is Acceptance.

I hope, I hang out in Hope, I 

I know what I was thinking about when putting these words in place.  I know who I was responding to (it wasn't my father if that's what you're thinking).  I remember how sure I was about this response and how carefully I began to construct it.  I also remember the fever of writing that kept burning and burning.

There are times when drafts become something more.  But there are many times when drafts are just drafts: there and gone, gentle winds that become nothing; haunting currents.  A consideration of an echo.