I honestly hope that I will always be surprised by things I have written in years past.
Two years ago:
“…why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop.”
Life is a disasterous affair, but hell. At least I’m learning that.
My heart belongs elsewhere, perhaps high on shelf where nobody can reach it. Perhaps buried deep in the ocean that I am so terrified of drowning in.
Definitely not in the hands of liars. Abusers. Manipulators. Pick one, I’ve got more…
My heart. A tough old bitch, but she’s been broken more times than she’s been fixed, and eventually one has to give up trying to repair those cracks. Those mini Grand Canyons whose grandeur seems a lot less grand after feeling the pain of falling.
Again, and again.
That heart is a romantic one. Who believes in true loves, endless blue skies, beautiful and simple truth. It pushes through the bullshit because of the genuine belief that goodness and pure souls exist. That heart endures the pain because without it, life would cease to have meaning. Somewhere, somewhere in that pain life has meaning again.
I think I wrote a lot better when I was in pain. The thoughts were “deeper”, and I always had something to analyze about myself and others. It’s always been that way, unless you count the years I spent writing stories that I made up as I went along, on those yellow memo pad sheets my dad would bring home. Gosh, I must have filled fifty of those with my “semi-short” stories about the ghosts of little girls trying to tell their secrets, and “long forgotten tales of woe”.
Yep. Even at that age, I was odd.
Anyway, the point of this entry is that I’m much more healed now. I can remember writing the above entry, and the intense feeling of satisfaction after I finished it. It was an “aha” moment, where I finally felt like I had made my point. I wrote better when I was in pain.
Hmmm, I feel like I have more to say, but nothing is coming anymore. Until later…