i’m not usually literal in writing, but what the hell.
from how many different directions, people, situations, repetitions will i have to receive these lessons until i finally learn them?
i look back at my whole life and the same kind of stories are being told in different ways. familiar, ever so familiar. and they happen all at once, a set of feelings mixes up with another, faces blend together and start translating into the same pattern.
this year, i feel as if i was forced into the conflict head on, repeatedly, in all aspects of my existence, from every single interaction and place. i kept falling short - there’s an unusual feeling to succeeding and failing at the same time.
i saw that bright pink art print screaming DARE YOU TO BE WHO YOU WILL at me, and i felt it somewhere rebellious and truthful.
my fundamental nature as a child was to be exactly who i was, knowing i deserved love regardless. i was loud, always right, too smart for my own good. i was imaginative, intense, argumentative. i withdrew sometimes, and i needed to be away or alone.
and since i started having to make myself smaller to fit somewhere i already knew i didn’t, i kept doing it. again. again. again. i was still everything i used to be, but from this point on, i was always bothering someone. and it broke my heart that this is who i really was.
the work it takes to become a somewhat reliable narrator in my own mind is constant, relentless, and… freeing.
i don’t need to tell myself i did everything right, because i didn’t. the beauty in finally working through things with clarity - not lying to myself anymore - is that i can understand i wasn’t capable of doing everything right, no one is. they also couldn’t.
but where there’s love, there’s an inherent resolve to create something that endures anything. that will be accepting, welcoming, understanding, honest, open, clear. that will break and mend a thousand times, however many necessary, just to continue on. there’s a tenacity in loving.
but there’s also kindness in looking at it all and knowing that there just isn’t room for being exactly who i am anymore.
there doesn’t seem to be a will to mend it, and i can’t do it on my own. there’s kindness in letting go. in stopping myself from grasping it with both my hands. there’s wisdom in making a decision in a split second because my guts howled at me to stop trying to be loved where i’m not wanted.
something shifted. i felt this warmth take me over and become confident, comfortable, calm. it’s okay. i won’t be loved by everyone, and some who once loved me will love me less, or disappear completely. it’s okay.
and over the next hours and days i felt the urge to go be thankful for the love i have. and i got it back. again. again. again. out of nowhere, i heard the sweetest things. every single word flooding with gentleness. eager plans made. suddenly, i saw love everywhere.
the nature of every cycle in this world is the same. everything that starts, stops. what pulls, pushes. what stays, leaves. what exists, doesn’t.
and there’s no point in rage, or demanding to make something happen, demanding to be wanted near, to be loved. there’s no point in feeding that bitter need for the planets to realign into what you want them to be.
there’s love in letting go. compassion in not fighting anymore - for or with. nothing that was meant to be mine ever needed a different person other than myself.
and there has never been a time when the starry skies or the ocean or the forests or the mountains or anything that has ever mattered haven’t returned, as if they never left. i don’t expect a return. but loving is a force of nature - if it’s real, it finds its way.
i’ve done all i could. my hands are opening and releasing. if it doesn’t come back, it has run its course. if it does, i’ll let it in only when i see it as the force of nature it should be - that will take me in exactly as i am.
2087
pixelskylines
areudirty
titsay
