Having the experience is only a tiny part of it; reflection and then the distillation of said experience alongside the reflection (preferably amusing or enlightening) into mere words is a much larger part of it. It being the telling of a story, the assumption of the elusive character of interesting-and-i-am-my-own-person person.
Have wanted an excoriation. The scrubbing of pumice against dead-skin-cracked-grandmother heels, or steel wool on chemically paint-stripped ugly wooden furniture. Have wanted to feel clean and clear of the past, of mind clutter and attic-brain dust. Of mistakes or impressions of mistakes or hallucinations of impressions of mistakes. What's holding me back? What's holding us all back?
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