This great woman, this smart, successful, funny, writer, singer, lover, woman; sadder than sad, today- for no goddang reason at all.
Negate that- sadder than sad this WEEK. Something’s awry, she thinks, something’s amiss, she says, dumbfounded.
I’m her, that’s me, myself, and I! I write when I’m happy, feelings flying like kites, bursting out of my chest like balloons, ready to float into God’s hands, who’ll catch them and share them with the world. Except I’m not happy; I’m sad. Can I write when I’m sad? I have a voice, I guess. I use it, I say, and so.
I have no choice; I write when I’m happy, and I write when I’m sad, it’s what I’m meant to do, it’s what I’m here for, right? Write.
It’s hard when someone doesn’t understand you, it’s a magical feeling, being all alone. Almost like we revel in it, I’m so unique, no one understands me, let me lie down in this little world I’ve build around myself, so no one can get in and then….Gasp! Why are you here! And how did you get it?! The sun rises, it also sets. And then when someone does, rise to you and show you light, we’re almost offended, just leave me be, don’t bother with me. Aren’t you amused with your toys and your laughter and your jetsetting? Shuddering, disbelief, fear; who sent you here, why do you know me, why do you want to?
But then, we allow it. and we build on it, and suddenly, we find ourselves ‘tamed’.
I’m emotional, as a person, I’m hard to handle, at best. I love a lot, and a little bit of mediocrity in my daily life makes me shine, same noises, I’d love that. Weird? Today, sunshine, warmth, feet, music, burns, happiness, and hope- heart’s open, I’m thinking. Ready for the shine, ready to be in love, ready to exclaim with joy how hopeful I am. Except, I wasn’t, and it shocked me, almost pissed me off; love to see you happy, fear admonishes, why aren’t you less…broken? my shinier-fixed self thinks.
Who are you, I screamed, how dare you? Admonished by my own fears and insecurities, my inner person turns her back on her outer person, and sulks. And cries, myself, alone, but sad, freaking sad, for no solid reason. For me being cruel to her. Like really, selfish of me, isn’t it?
Then, I discover a Pandora station that illustrates to me what driving in a yellow vintage Jaguar convertible down the California coast would be like. Then, I find a poet who tells me all the secrets of four am, as a word, a noun, and a feeling. I feel hopeful. I feel let down by my earlier self; self, why would you say those things to me? Aren’t you always telling kids, feel your feelings, or they sink like weights into your shoes and next thing you know your walk is screwed up and your backs a mess from dragging this around? So I become nice, or I become vague, and that’s enough.
Who am I, I say, to teach others what to say, or do, or say, why would anyone listen to me, me? Will I listen to my own self, the self which I sit and eat and drink and see daily?
So I mope, sullenly, addressing my own fears and realizations, that to be human is to be flawed, and top priority today it seems is to allow myself to be human. So I am, so I am, I am. And I allow it. It consumes me, and its golden, like light, the sunlight.
My scars catch fire, and maybe the world’s a little brighter, because I have seen it.