Time for honesty.
Maybe a little dose of reality too.
For myself. I know, I am prone to wallow in self-denial.
“You’re wallowing again.” (Thanks kid. I mean it. You’re always honest with me.)
That’s why I stopped writing.
I thought I could ignore it. Ignore what I never brought up and out and onto the page. Pretending it didn’t exist, the little turmoils in my head.
I hate feeling like this, spewing metaphor after metaphor for sadness and pain. I say pain like something hurts but I’ve been past that. I’m talking about the pain where all my nerve emotional nerve endings have been fried. So now I can’t feel anything, even in the moments when I so desperately want to.
I am going to get through this though.
That’s a statement.
I am going to push through and spew out all this garbage, because I’ve missed this. The sound of my fingers on the keyboard, writing down ideas the moment the pop into my head. I don’t even carry a journal around anymore. All because I don’t want to admit to it. To let it be real. To be real.
So real talk, with feeling.
My feeling, or feelings.
Those that I push so desperately in that box and place at the top of the closet.
Well, I want a lot of things. But concerning this, I want… Not to be more happy. Happiness is fleeting and lands in moments, briefly or lingering. Never permanent, no. We can of course feel its traces, like the touch of a lover that you still feel on your skin.
I want to be less.
Less sad, less wallowly.
Less of whatever it is, I’m feeling the majority of the time. I don’t need happiness to replace it. I need just more space so I can fill it up with something different. Something productive maybe. Something hopeful, inspiring.
Perhaps, what I am yearning for is…