You know, it's possible to over analyze to the point of well-kempt-paralysis. Where is the sun? I ask. And why is everyone so mean to me? A tiny voice contributes: They're not; you just haven't figured out how to take your vitamin D pills and go to bed on time. I encourage the tiny voice by sipping one-third-sweet peppermint mochas and firing spiral shaped emails to Anita at alarming speed. I drown it out by over spending, and choosing bustle over solitude. I listen to my friends and what they think of me; they sound so much like the tiny voice.
I feel like I'm waiting for something. What it is, I could guess to tell you. Maybe I want the years reversed. In my head, I took care of my leaking car and the resulting spores 2 years ago. In my head, I learned money young. I've eaten a lot of snacks since I was a teen, had a plethora of successful thrift store trips, managed to stay afloat financially, and had good luck by delaying certain consequences. Now as an adult, during a sunless winter, I feel bent under the weight of it all. It's as if the gremlins have been waiting in the shadows, tying their wrists together, so they could catch up to me at the same time.
This is a wave, like all the other waves have been, and will pass once I get this feeling off my chest. The image in my head is a cartoon version of me, climbing a smooth ice wall with skates on. The tiny voice's throat clears, a pair of hands turn the image, and I am skating. Maybe tomorrow I'll be skating. If only I knew how.
For now I want a re-do, a personality transplant, the ability to give up my grip on the remote control. I want a spirit guide, a guru, a mentor's voice. I want God. I want to feel smart and not regretful. I want my hands to make something beautiful, my will to do right by me, and my heart to let go the burden of untruth; though my knees wobble.
I have done some things well - this I strive to remember. There is so much I am not, but so much much more that I am, and am proud of, and bring to the world. If I ever forget this, there are a hundred tiny voices to remind me; in the form of friends, old letters, newly spoken words, sunny day remnants, sent jokes, and memories in my spirit. They produce hands and steady the picture for me, helping me forward, as I learn to step over the untrue things.
|photo by Lukas Kozmus. Found on Colossal.|