Can’t get enough of this song. This post, not a continuation I started in the other…previous….you will find it (God moments) if you want to know and want to dig, and want to hear my half finished sentence.
I’m unplugging from the hive mind….the enter the net, the web ,that traps peeps….I don’t advertise my blog anymore….my other blog emmabush.com I imagine got taken down by family. They didn’t like the start of my story without waiting to hear where it would end. It may not have begun as they liked. They fear a lot. I understand. So have I. Maybe at the root of it, I’ve feared the absence of them….in the meantime I will just be planting and caring for my own garden….
There was a bot on that blog for years that wanted emmabush.com to shut up….over 43 THOUSAND malicious login attempt….shut up me….if they just knocked at my door and asked me to stop, maybe I would….don’t have to be sneaky kill me to silence me. Maybe it was family the whole time. It worked. I won’t pursue…..I imagine, same silencer, that was my father the day he feared what I would say and he pointed his hands at my head like he was holding the shotgun I grew up watching crows get shot at and the pesky deer being scared away when they dared graze on the fruits of the orchard of a man too lazy to pick his own…he plucked other fruits, and tried to water other gardens, when his own was withering and dying.
I love you dad. Depressed is a thing. I get it.
But my voice is still here and as I fight for well, not dig one like the driller that was my father, who could find water by using a stick like a witch and tool….I’m just….the aftermath….lost….narrator.
So afraid of what I may say, but more likely to say it the moment they don’t discuss with me but just smother my words like the murderer that killed me last year.
Interesting, when I don’t say i’m writing, how nobody reads. Interesting, if I want to get published, I have to pay….I have paid people to read. But…I have no money. I never did. So I will just speak to the silence of the black hole that is wishing someone would hear me, and maybe some change qat some point. I have to go towork. I’m a writer. As a day job<- i smile and sell you things at the gas station. You don’t know how I am, when I’m behind the counter. Most don’t even care. I get. I’m just here to make money for some corporation while on my off time I can write and try to thrive and come back to life. And exist, and write, and share even if nobody wants what I have to offer, it is a story of brokeness and confusion. I wish people would understand, they aren’t alone, if anything.
Twilight Zone world.