And lately, I've been taking whatever minor toxins I have inside of me and vaporizing them into song, as I do. It has been marvelous.
Makes it hard to leave, really.
Like, how much of a masochist do I have to be in order to stay, or leave? It's time. I know it's time. It's time, it's time, it's time. My level of "over it" is steadily increasing by the minute. My restlessness makes it difficult to hold a conversation or eye contact or keep myself grounded.
Grounded. The scariest thing.
I'm not sure if most people have foundations or roots; all I know is that I don't. And it doesn't always have to be a thing that makes me sad. In fact, it seldom does; having reached an unprecedented level of closeness while living here has actually weirded me out a little bit. It means that I'm unafraid to go exploring and adventuring and I have the opportunity to meet new people, try new things, learn.
And there are many, many things to learn.
Reality is a lot like quantum physics, which is an interesting thing to say, but I think it's accurate in more ways than one. Feynman once noted that when a person thinks he or she has a firm grasp on the subject, the person is farther away than ever before. He, of course, was speaking of quantum physics; but he had a marvelous gift for driving the subject matter home. And once I think I know what I'm talking about, I get too comfortable. For somebody who tries to keep her privilege in perspective (and has legitimately never figured out how to spell 'privilege' correctly on the first try; there's no 'd'...why is there a 'd' in 'knowledge' but not 'privilege') and for somebody who dearly loves to learn and to open her mind to all kinds of different angles and perspectives, I can be pretty judgmental. And the worst part about that is, I get judgmental when I'm feeling well.
I don't think that my confidence is in the right spot.
Rather, I wish I could move it to other aspects of my life. I am overwhelmingly self confident in some areas, but detrimentally self deprecating in others. And most likely, to everyone a few years my senior, I seem to be endowed with a millennial's dose of self entitlement.
But, that doesn't make any sense. Just six months ago I felt like less than a vapor stuck in a pocket of dark instability, but now that I'm feeling better, I confidently and happily own that instability as my home. How is that entitlement? I just want to stay alive and sustain. That's it. That's all. If that looks like entitlement to you, then shame on you. A thousand times, shame on your lack of perspective and compassion. Get out of here with your abrasive energy, and leave me to my own devices. If you wish to approach me, then approach me as a human being with an individual identity; not as a member of a demographic which you choose to scrutinize.
Or, was that wording too pompous and pretentious for you? Am I simply proving your point?
Whatever. Go away. I want to be around good energy, not this.
The whole world has gone mad, and I know it. Of course, my heart is heavy. But there aren't enough bytes of data in the world to post all of my irritation on the good ol' FB, nor would I ever want to. And besides, my silence is a recognition that I am not entitled to own an opinion on many of the goings on. My silence has never been consent. Ever. On the contrary, it's my refusal to own issues that are not mine to own. For example, I can have lots of feelings about the Charleston massacre, or Ferguson, or Baltimore, or Texas, or Rachel What's-her-face...but I can't own it. I don't know what it's like to be a black American. I don't, and I never will, and to try would be an act of ignorance and violence in itself.
And even at this point, I'm almost ready to abandon (abandon is the wrong word. Vacate, maybe? Retire? Move on?) the issues that absolutely are mine to own.
I just can't anymore. Maybe it's burnout, but more likely than that, it's my longing to move on. Keep moving forward. It takes a significant amount of energy to convince myself that I'm not in a cage. I have to keep going. There is nothing more that I can do for this healing process. I've been open, I've found community, I've found healing, I've come to terms with the fact that this does not ever go away. There is peace that comes with that. It doesn't even really hurt anymore. Not terribly, I mean. Not enough to die over. That's what happens when wounds turn into scabs. I'm not ignoring it; I'm letting it be.
Let me be.
I'll figure it out, but I won't know the right thing to do. I don't ever know. Nobody ever knows, for certain, what will turn out well and what will end up completely falling apart in some glorious, explosive way. So, of course I'm scared of my life. Who wouldn't be? It's a healthy fear! It's the kind of fear that will prevent me from plunging into the Grand Canyon without any rock climbing gear. It's a fear that just might save my life.
But I'm excited. I'll keep it exciting and progressive and as fun as I can. All I have to do is remind myself that I'm free to do all of these crazy things that I want to do, but to be smart about it.
I'm free. I'm not in a cage.