There is a flicker in my stomach today; a nervousness for some reason. I can’t place it. Momentary anxiety about life in general. Upcoming. Ongoing. Past-present missteps.
I feel slowly and think quick, though never on my feet. I’m unsure of so much and dependant on so little. I cracked a joke in a conversation that I felt like I was just a figment of my drink-date’s imagination. And said friend laughed for about a half second before vehemently agreeing. That’s how I come across sometimes and the friend pressed for more details and all of a sudden it seemed true. That I was a hologram of sorts. That I was an image and served a purpose; a party favor, a goodie bag.
It was a compliment, and then it was incredibly sad. I carry around The Inheritance of Loss, just forty pages shy of the conclusion and I text while watching bad TV on someone else’s couch. My dichotomy is one in which I reach without stretching my arms, I sing with no voice and I wish but can’t get past the second act. There is a hurdle that has planted itself and on the other side is who I am supposed to be, with the job and the golden circle and the love I thought I was supposed to have. My novel collects dust because the main character has to become an adult and I cannot write what I don’t yet know.
And on the other side is…a question of depth. If I possess the complexity to achieve the expectations. That the desire I have is founded and not just a pipe dream.
I don’t know what I want, but even further, I’m unsure if once I decide, I should be allowed to have it…
I feel slowly and think quick, though never on my feet. I’m unsure of so much and dependant on so little. I cracked a joke in a conversation that I felt like I was just a figment of my drink-date’s imagination. And said friend laughed for about a half second before vehemently agreeing. That’s how I come across sometimes and the friend pressed for more details and all of a sudden it seemed true. That I was a hologram of sorts. That I was an image and served a purpose; a party favor, a goodie bag.
It was a compliment, and then it was incredibly sad. I carry around The Inheritance of Loss, just forty pages shy of the conclusion and I text while watching bad TV on someone else’s couch. My dichotomy is one in which I reach without stretching my arms, I sing with no voice and I wish but can’t get past the second act. There is a hurdle that has planted itself and on the other side is who I am supposed to be, with the job and the golden circle and the love I thought I was supposed to have. My novel collects dust because the main character has to become an adult and I cannot write what I don’t yet know.
And on the other side is…a question of depth. If I possess the complexity to achieve the expectations. That the desire I have is founded and not just a pipe dream.
I don’t know what I want, but even further, I’m unsure if once I decide, I should be allowed to have it…
4 comments:
Very well expressed. I think we all go through periods of feeling like a hack, an impostor or invisible. Some of us get stuck there, in the spiritworld. But I can't help thinking that when you write like this, you're validating yourself. You're not a figment of anyone's imagination. You come alive through your words.
I agree. We all feel like we don't deserve things. But we do. YOU DO!
Some of what you said seems to have come straight out of my own thoughts. Wondering whether I should risk freeing or exploring my depths, in fear that maybe there aren't any. What if it's better to exist here on the surface, where I can continue to tell myself that, if I chose to go further, it would be remarkable.
Well expressed.
This was well written,
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