I've tried to keep this blog uplifting, not only for others, but for myself. To serve as a reminder of all of the wonderful things which I have been lucky enough to have been a witness to over the past year. I think a part of me knew that, at some point, I would lose that optimistic outlook on life and would need a reminder as to why I should work to keep it.
And though it pains me to do so, I have to post something that's less than happy. Less than bright. Less than hopeful.
This feeling terrifies me. It strips me of all of the defenses I have come to know. My clay army is but a pile of broken pottery, useless and meaningless. This feeling is one that I haven't felt in a few years, and the fact that I feel it creeping back into my life scares me. Petrifies me. I don't want it. I wanted to be rid of it forever. But the more I step away, the more it follows. It is as though I am leaving a perpetual trail of inedible bread crumbs that root to the ground behind me, forever to be a guide for an ambush.
This is guerrilla warfare, and the enemy is myself.
The worst part is that I can remember it all. I can remember the feeling of gazing at speeding cars longingly, wishing for nothing more than a strong gust of wind to push me towards them. I can remember my hand shaking on the banister as I walked down the stairs in my dorm, just in case I should "lose my footing" and find myself at the bottom much quicker than I had anticipated. I remember contemplating the dosage of Advil that would leave me numb, perhaps more, and wondering who would find me once I had gone.
And then I remember the feelings of hope I felt. I remember the simple beauty and pleasure of letting the sun warm my skin and flush my cheeks. I remember caring for myself and for my body, and wanting only to fill it with nutrition and health. I remember being too excited to fall asleep because there was so much to see in this beautiful world. I remember the tears that flowed from the overwhelming happiness I felt bubbling in my chest.
I remember it all.
And now I struggle with who I am, where I've been, where to go. Am I the girl who wishes for sleep because it hurts less than being awake? Or am I the girl who can hardly stay still because she itches to explore and live her life?
I don't know.
I don't know who I am. Who I'm supposed to be. Am I supposed to be anyone, for that matter? Or are these limitations ones I place on myself because I know not what else to do?
They make compasses for lost travellers, stranded in the woods. They always point north.
Please, someone. Anyone.
Let me get there.
- May (you search for your answers).
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About Me
- May
- She is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with a hint of MoMA and the Whitney. She is Walt Whitman's "Myself" in "Song of Myself." She is an incomplete stanza of a finished poem. She is the subtitle at the bottom of the screen of a foreign film, spelled wrong. She is the low E string of a guitar. She is the G chord on a piano. She is the Tube, the NY Subway System, the T, the Metro, and everything in between. She is one of the grains of sand on a beach, anywhere in the world. She is the needle, injecting ink into someone's skin. She is the bubble racing from the bottom of a pint of Guinness. She is the Flat Iron building. She is the imaginary film in your digital camera. She is the musty smell of an old book you found in the back of a dusty bookstore. She is not one but two twins of the Gemini sign. She is the middle line at the bottom of the peace sign. She is the "you" when Paul McCartney sings "All you need is love." She is her. No one else.
Let me tell you who you are, May.
ReplyDeleteYou are free. Free to forget. Free to dream and hope and love. Free to scream and yell and vent.
Read the long tweet I just posted. :)
You are a work in progress, and it can only get better. Remember that, love. :)