Trying to develop a life, and feeling all of the moments inbetween. Life has taken on a new tone. No longer in fear that each day will be my last, I alternate between loving that after each day there is another and another still, or fearing am I doing too much of this or not enough of that? Worrying that the list which has grown very long, that even as I check them off one by one, that deadlines will come and go. Am I ever good enough? What does it take to get over my own ineptitude? Or rather disability…Fighting with something inside me that no one else can see, taking small steps like a child and I can look back and see the miles that I’ve crossed. And yet somehow I stumble and I fall. Each step forward is met with criticism inside of me, of what I have yet to be done.
Yet looking out across the hillside blue, I can also breath a sense of tension. Because I’m building a life, a new life, a chapter or two. Building what I saw years ago, and it’s here now, waiting to happen. Yet it does not just come, it sits and waits, like a child that reaches out it’s hand to me.
So much progress in music, yet I falter across the board in other things that matter. And so I worked on it, one piece at a time. It has changed and improved. But not enough to be where I need to be. So I went to the doctor. He gave me these pills, to change my sleeping pattern. It got better. It still needs improvement. It is not over. But I’m close, so close, that it seems strange. Almost like a new world that I’ve stepped into. Yet there are more, more things to work on, more things about myself to change. And while I reach out, I am also reaching in, healing from within.
I thought it was over. I had forgiven and moved on. But instead I found anger, so readily to pounce, at anything new. It is hard to have tolerance for those who simply do not understand. To be blamed for being someone I’m not, is a hard pill to swallow, to have to forgive again and again at each new afront. But the point is that they do not know me. Those who do love me, or hate me for what it is that I have that they do not have. Which baffles me. But I have let those go their way by the side. And breathing in each new gasp of air, finally able to fill my lungs completely, and looking out over the green….I see each little thing that I do positively, for I decided yesterday. That if I can not seem to do these things that need to be done, then why worry so much over the expanse of it all. Why not just do one thing at a time. And so I did.
My heart screamed for it wanted more. It wanted out of this self imposed cage I have put it in years ago. And yet as I consider my first steps out the door, self doubt, joy, excitement, and beauty in the stillness, all pervade.
She wants a place where she can say what’s on her mind. Whether that be what kind of milk she’d like to buy, or to tell a story of years ago. She wants a place to fly free to be whatever it is she minds to be, perhaps an activist with a penchant for peace, an opinion or two, a list that’s very long of pieces on stories that really do matter. And yet at any place inbetween to simply state simplicity as a matter of fact, never mind if it is art or something not worth looking to. She wishes that her bar wasn’t so high. To live up to her own expectations is a little dry. A hop a skip and a jump, or just a thought or two, might make life more enjoyable, no? A piece of art, a piece of work, an opinion or two, a litany of what really matters and no mention of she, and yet to pause whenever she feels like it and to take a drag on an imaginary cigarrette, a moment to just breathe. Wishing that those with opinions against she were not looking over her shoulder and pointing down. They loom so large their shadow so high, the bottom of the darkness is sharp by contrast to their large large head, as in a cartoon, with faces not to be seen. They point down at her so small, like a mouse she ran away, instead of facing up to the fact that they are not she. Their voices should not matter, but they do. For she has never given up hope that one day they might understand. And so she shared her gem. Something not meant for them, but important you see. For she was creating something for me. But they laugh and they taunt, and throw the pages along with her heart out the window, so that no one could see, what they had done, or not done, and what they fail to see. And so she fights this internal conflict, between what she sees in the glass looking back, and running from their shadows in the alley by the tall tall buildings with no personality. For even she can not live up to, or doesn’t know if she does, live up to what she herself has put under her pillow, for all the world to see. Yet she knows secretly, that something has been given to her that she must share with the world. And for this she has to stand up and fight those who taunt her. She must go to that street where they loom and they point. And she must look around the corner to see, that they are just as small as she. Walking away, she looks back wistfully. They will never know what it is that she tried to give them. For they are tyrants in their own hypocrisy. A tear falls because she understands to a degree. For it is themselves that stand in their own way, from feeling the glow of love that was once freely offered, because of their inner tyranny.