Sometimes when I'm writing something,
a letter or a text or a post or a newsletter that only like 10 people read,
I think "what if something happened to me and these are the last words that people would scrutinize and dwell on, reading them over and mining for great meaning in every possible symbol and sign?"
Then I remember that my mom, after watching Ladybird with me, didn't see us there at all. Instead, the whole thing reminded her of her and grandma. Missing the point entirely.
(or did she? It hardly matters. I can still feel my quiet, resigned disappointment at her reaction- twisted like a dull knife)
I guess the point is, there's no guarantee that anyone in this life will actually understand you. Not even if you share blood or a roof or trauma or years.
Sometimes- most times- you're just writing for yourself.
