The quiet void

There are so many times when I am glad that I have the ability to write what I think and feel so easily.  This is not exactly one of them. Especially when it comes to sharing with others;  I share and I share and I share but often, I get no response back to let me know if what I shared was meaningful to anyone else.  No one who writes,  writes in a vaccuum; most people I know who write do so to help, share, express themselves and they hope to make a difference to someone. 

The lack of response always makes me doubt myself.  Maybe I write too much and it is too overwhelming. Maybe people are too busy to respond or too busy to read what I write.   Maybe I write things no one likes to read.  Maybe I write things that make people feel uncomfortable.  Or maybe the truth is that I write things that engender no feelings at all;  the  indifference from others  is this huge, quiet  void.  It is like an artist who paints their heart and soul out on canvas only to be ignored completely.  It is very difficult to keep painting if it only means something to the painter.   Even a negative reaction is preferrable; at least it acknowledges what I have put out there.  I don't expect everyone to like what I write. 

Whatever it is, I want to write and feel compelled to write but I think I will  keep it hidden, as though it were some disease to be kept secret.  It hurts to keep it secret because it is part of me and when it is ignored, I feel ignored;  I feel like that part of me is a part no one else wants to experience.  I feel like I have nothing to offer from that deepest well of my intuition and feeling.  Why does this matter so much lately? I hate feeling this needy.

Maybe it is a self esteem thing that I need to work on. ::::sigh::::