While searching for a pen so I might write in one of my blank books that I decided was salvageable, I stumbled upon some words- words that were like a knife in my heart. They were not my words, nor were they intended for me, yet there they were and now here I am.
I thought about trying to reassure myself that it was the thought of the words, the context they were used in, the situation at the time, that bothered me. But it was the words that started my overactive brain working.
Did it bother me that these were words I have also said myself? Said almost exactly word for word? The person I said them to at the time had said no one had ever said anything like what I was saying to them before, yet here were my nearly identical words, right before my eyes, coming from another.
Not that I believe words are unique, we all use them, it’s the context in which we use them that makes all the difference. The spin we put on them, that piece of our soul that we bleed out into them. Uniqueness and all that nonsense. I haven’t said anything that hasn’t already been said before. It’s a realization that I struggle with sometimes, mostly when I am stuck on what exactly I should write. I usually get over it pretty quickly, but I’ve never felt my heart drop quite like I did tonight over knowing that my words have been said before, by someone else.
I’ll write something different. I’ll write without hesitation. I’ll write without that fear of sounding insane, repetitive, overdramatic, all the things I worry about sounding when I write. I’ll put my heart onto the paper and in the end, those words I read tonight will not matter because they were not meant for me. They were not my words.