I feel like half. Reasonably I should be a whole. Just as I am. But, my brain and my eyes continues to work separate from one another.
My brain - the thing that lets me feel and my eyes - the thing that lets me reason.
I am stuck at a half-way point in my head and it's causing an immobility-- i know, again with the immobility -
I have a house in which I lived and suffered a great deal. Internally and externally. It just was unpleasant. As much as I tried to feel comfortable both within the walls and within my skin, I did not. But now is the time to clean up. Clean up my thoughts and the floors. Breathe behind a locked door and breathe with open thoughts. Today is going to be the day I return home to stay for good.
So i'm thinking about the half i feel i am and i'm thinking on the word home. Growing up, home was not someplace i ever wanted to be. It was full of violence and anger and fear. Laughter and joy came when we were away from the home even if it did occur with the same people who stayed within when the doors were locked. i think about the entry i agonized over with the toys and think to angry words i deflected my whole life about having a lot of things or the frequent accusation that i never was home. i was home enough. And the things I had were just distractions - fantasy in a world in which i felt alien.
As an adult, i have children and we have a home. i always said, 'i'm doing my best,' even when i fell short. And their story is theirs. i don't want to presume they saw things they didn't.
But it's not what i wanted and it's only half of what i feel i could have done for their security and nourishment.
I'm halfway through my life (if i'm lucky!) and i just went through enough introspection to realize some pretty big things. i count because my dad respected the numbers and i write because it was a rebellious thing to do with letters. But i feel -- I just feel when i do these things. I have a hard day with numbers where i take a minute (or twelve) to cry because the problem before me is too grand to reason. And then i breeze through some work and can really quantify my value. With writing, I pull some words together and maybe look at it again - possibly agonize over the configuration - but in the end, it lets me - i don't know what it does, but i re-read my words and even if they make me cry with a memory i'm not quite ready to handle, i smile a little knowing i have written.
The final piece of the incomplete pie chart making up the whole of me is this: i may only want half?
I never finished my accounting degree. At this point, I don't want to. I don't write with these analytics and shy away from the other writers who talk about book sales and editing for publication. I just want to write. And when someone tells me that others are going to notice me someday... i really don't care - the stubornness - the rebellion - i don't want to change my writing unless i decide to sit and re-write. Bottom line. It's only half. It's the epitiome of mediocrity.
We're in this grand time of society where the masses can decide what they crowdsource and truly give their voice on the things they like, but in my opinion, eloquence has suffered and devolved into a lengthy and slow buzz feed slide show. Quite frankly, I don't care what anybody else wants. I don't care about the thumbs up and the recgnition. It's hard enough to just get to the sunset without having to deal with accolades.
Sometimes I feel like all that I am is half of what I wanted to be but most days I struggle with the half that I am; so truly I would be useless waging internal war on the half I could be when I reason that I don't want to be whole at all.
This feels unfinished, but it's all i'm going to say today.
My brain - the thing that lets me feel and my eyes - the thing that lets me reason.
I am stuck at a half-way point in my head and it's causing an immobility-- i know, again with the immobility -
I have a house in which I lived and suffered a great deal. Internally and externally. It just was unpleasant. As much as I tried to feel comfortable both within the walls and within my skin, I did not. But now is the time to clean up. Clean up my thoughts and the floors. Breathe behind a locked door and breathe with open thoughts. Today is going to be the day I return home to stay for good.
So i'm thinking about the half i feel i am and i'm thinking on the word home. Growing up, home was not someplace i ever wanted to be. It was full of violence and anger and fear. Laughter and joy came when we were away from the home even if it did occur with the same people who stayed within when the doors were locked. i think about the entry i agonized over with the toys and think to angry words i deflected my whole life about having a lot of things or the frequent accusation that i never was home. i was home enough. And the things I had were just distractions - fantasy in a world in which i felt alien.
As an adult, i have children and we have a home. i always said, 'i'm doing my best,' even when i fell short. And their story is theirs. i don't want to presume they saw things they didn't.
But it's not what i wanted and it's only half of what i feel i could have done for their security and nourishment.
I'm halfway through my life (if i'm lucky!) and i just went through enough introspection to realize some pretty big things. i count because my dad respected the numbers and i write because it was a rebellious thing to do with letters. But i feel -- I just feel when i do these things. I have a hard day with numbers where i take a minute (or twelve) to cry because the problem before me is too grand to reason. And then i breeze through some work and can really quantify my value. With writing, I pull some words together and maybe look at it again - possibly agonize over the configuration - but in the end, it lets me - i don't know what it does, but i re-read my words and even if they make me cry with a memory i'm not quite ready to handle, i smile a little knowing i have written.
The final piece of the incomplete pie chart making up the whole of me is this: i may only want half?
I never finished my accounting degree. At this point, I don't want to. I don't write with these analytics and shy away from the other writers who talk about book sales and editing for publication. I just want to write. And when someone tells me that others are going to notice me someday... i really don't care - the stubornness - the rebellion - i don't want to change my writing unless i decide to sit and re-write. Bottom line. It's only half. It's the epitiome of mediocrity.
We're in this grand time of society where the masses can decide what they crowdsource and truly give their voice on the things they like, but in my opinion, eloquence has suffered and devolved into a lengthy and slow buzz feed slide show. Quite frankly, I don't care what anybody else wants. I don't care about the thumbs up and the recgnition. It's hard enough to just get to the sunset without having to deal with accolades.
Sometimes I feel like all that I am is half of what I wanted to be but most days I struggle with the half that I am; so truly I would be useless waging internal war on the half I could be when I reason that I don't want to be whole at all.
This feels unfinished, but it's all i'm going to say today.
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