Fake Blood

I let a friend of mine read a short description of how I felt the other night. I was severely depressed for some reason. It came over me quite rapidly and the only way I could escape it was to write. As she read what I had written she of course made the observation that it was quite dismal. She also mentioned that it seemed as if I was holding something back. I began pondering that comment. She then commented on how my writing seemed to lack personal details and the reason for these feelings.

It seemed to strike a nerve in my mind. I remembered that as a little boy I would write in my journal about my various adventures and crushes feeling fairly free to express names and insignificant details. I also remember a few years later that I went back through the journals and began scratching the names out of my previous entries. I think back on that now and wonder why? What was I trying to hide from myself? What secrets was I trying to keep myself from finding out? Did I not want anyone to mistakenly find these and have them fall into the wrong hands? Did I hid the identities of aforementioned people for their safety and protection? Was I just trying to keep more things about me a secret?

I've been trying to write everyday, in journal form, lyric form, story form, anything to get my thoughts and hands working in conjunction to put out to the Universe. My writing can seem to lack personal details though, it may be all superficial narration. I'm writing only what's on the surface.

I want people to read what I write and I want them to enjoy what it is that I have to say. I'm quite weary of writing personal details in certain things. Maybe I like seeming mysterious. Maybe I'm truly afraid to be known, even to myself. Maybe I'm talking out of my ass.