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I won’t advertise what I won’t deliver. There’s just too much of that. One of my pissed off pet peeves.

The prompt asked for Confessions, and I see some people lining up to willingly to release, divulge what they’ve been carrying. I am suspicious of their words because I don’t know if they’re writing for relief, in truth, or notoriety.   I’ll join in eventually and confess some vanilla thing that I can share willingly and truthfully. Always truthful. But the real stuff…

The real stuff is is what you haven’t seen yet.  It’s in my journals, in my dreams, on the sand. I’m withholding all my truths because I can’t trust you face to face.  I’ll put it down in a poem instead, eventually.  I’m still working on shedding the vague for the bold, hard truths.  I am told that the best writing is the hardest, when it’s the most real, the hardest crash and burns.

Enter Marina Abramovic. Man, I wish I had the chance to sit across from her and challenge myself in her eyes.  I use her to guide my writing. What is raw and naked instead of what is shy, camouflaged, and afraid.

I will write Confessions today that are meaningless, that adjoin the masses who just had to get some stuff off their chests, their hearts, their beings.  Meanwhile, I will scribble truths in notebooks I can barely decipher, hoping to find the right time and place to let the real all go.