I sympathize with the snake that swallows her own tail. I can see that.
Last night I accidently cut myself for the first time in over a year. This isn’t the crisis it would have been six years ago, but the beauty of blooming blood stunned me a moment. As healthy as I am, and I like to think I am, I still miss that release. Nothing kissed my skin and brought air to my lungs like the piercing release of a vein freed. But instead I write my arms with love and enjoy perks like scented lotions.
My Wild Citrus Sunflower is almost gone.
I’m exploring new roles in relationships. I’m not as open as I wish I were. In some regard, I am petty, even. I remember the disbelief I held when Sark told me she was a narcissist, and I forgive myself for my pettiness. In most ways, I’m not that bad a person. And in a few, I’m awful.
You can’t win ’em all, sport.
I want to leave more things open, as some doors close with time or age. If I can let that window stay ajar, I find that I will. And it’s not just because I am without air conditioning.
I need to infuse myself with boldness.
The office job is plastic wrapping my soul like an average cut of pork. Soon all my juices will drain and I’ll be left dry, tasteless, and chewy in a weird way. I am trying to dilate time when I have freedom, and stay focused through the business hours, but every minute drags like it knows how much control it wields. I haven’t felt this trapped by time since high school, when 3:00 was never soon enough for the drive down Beach Blvd.
Support does billow up to carry me through. I am a blessed woman.
Tomorrow I try to open a new door. It’s heavy. I have some help lined up, but I may need a genuine band‘s to make this baby work.
Sometimes, you can’t make someone else happy. And making yourself happy means letting go. All that makes perfect sense. It’s the deeper question: do I deserve to be happy in the first place?