If you think I’m writing about you, it’s probably because you were a part of my life that mattered.
You probably became an intricate part of my world, my friendships, my relationships, my story. And you provided me with something of meaning, of substance, of importance. You became something I valued, even if just for a second. And you knew how important you were to me.
So when something happened, good or bad, you knew that it would probably weasel its way into my work. You expected that there would be traces of you in the words, that some of the metaphorical pages for a while would have your thumbprint. You knew that by being in my life, you were also potentially going to be worth writing about. So if you think you made the cut and made it in, you might be right.
You might be the ‘you’ I’m writing about.
If you think I’m writing about you, it’s probably because you actually care.
You care. You give a shit how I feel. So when you see that I’m writing about someone, you want to know if you’re the instigator behind the emotions. You are saying, “Your emotions do something to me, matter in some way, and I want to know that you’re okay.” Because if there’s the possibility that you could be behind them, you want to know.
You’re wondering if I’m writing about you because if there’s even a chance that you could the be person behind the prose, the inspiration behind the work, you want to be able to either fix it or claim it.
If you think I’m writing about you, it’s probably because you’re fucking guilty about something.
It’s probably because you said something you shouldn’t have or can feel an “I’m sorry” lingering in your throat but for some reason you’re just reading what I’m writing instead of actually saying anything. The guilt is eating at you, pressing at you, asking you find answers so you can finally exhale. The not knowing is hurting at you, begging you to make it stop.
But you’re not doing anything about it — you’re just reading.
If you think I’m writing about you, it’s probably because you think I have a reason to be writing about you.
You think, or you know, that there is something that happened that would give me license to write about you. That there is something involving you, something that would be deemed ‘inspiration’ and you know that I would want to use it. Or that it’s something that would sit heavy on my chest until I wrote it out, and let it go. You know that writing is my catharsis, my healing, my way of dealing. And so if something happened, it would be only a matter of time until I wouldn’t be able to stay silent anymore.
You’re thinking that something is about you, because you know that there is a reason it could be in the first place.
If you think I’m writing about you, you could just ask. You could speak up, stop reading and wondering, and ask me.
But instead you’re still quiet. Still just reading, just wondering.
And I’m just writing.
Because I’m not really saying anything either.