I’ve become a closet writer. I miss the livejournal days, with all my blinking icons. I am subject to my Inner Critic, and she won’t let me put anything outside of my notebooks anymore. Fuck that noise.
I have even been working on Blake, watching him grow in his classes at Ambrose Academy. Todd’s English grades fall and Eleanor darkens alone in the castle, only the Lord of the Manor tormenting her mind. Colleen writes letters to no one, and they are responded to promptly.
Colorado summer is upon me, and I remember California in flavors I’d thought long forgotten. It makes my longing for home more intense. But my time in the west encourages me in new ways. I have found some semblance of confidence here, baking in the sun. I have also found desperation, and a sort of peace that comes with forsaking fear. Or hope? It’s hard to tell, honestly. The wind will blow all my carefully stacked cards away tomorrow, and I’ll start over. Every morning the sun rises and I head towards my bed, hiding between my blue sheets until I can face the day. I have to wait several hours before I gain the courage lately.
I feel empty. I don’t know why I write. I don’t know why I persist. But it is all about me…I, I, I, me, me, me. I am selfish. And it’s getting old.
Love comes and fills me up, and I ballon along for minutes, hours, days at a time. I can hold my breath and bounce from day to day, keeping away from most sharp objects. But, eventually.
If I am a drain on life around me, then it all makes sense. And I do take from those I care most about, in the sad way the world works. My misguided sense of optimism won’t last forever.
But it remains tonight. I saw flowers growing wild today, and irises planted in dozens of colors, tended with care. Blooms are less bold when borne wild, but they are sturdier. I have chosen solid ground over beauty many times over, and I do so again. Beauty does follow, when she notices those around her. Solid footing is a draw to any who have fallen, and who has never stumbled?
I question faith, endlessly, but in ways thought unconventional. In the conventional questioning, I am at a loss. My direct questions have answers, and I have long since made up my mind. When it comes between logic and passion, I am a coin toss away from being killed by the Mountain. The stronger of my selves is tired, and I have miles to go before I sleep.
Words are meant to be said, lines written out to be seen. I cry into the void and nothing answers, because I’m facing backwards. If there were life in all directions, we’d never be alone.
I used to want someone to find me. I remember writing and dreaming of a perfect love to come and save me from myself. I see now that I am my only savior, and I’m ill-equipped to do the job. For better or worse, no one else seems to be saving themselves, either. At least I’m part of the cool kids.
Maybe we’re not meant to be saved. Maybe doom is the only way out to life beyond. Maybe we’re all just partying in a monster’s belly.
Well…I better get another drink. If it’s a party.