specificity.

If only any one good or useful thing came naturally to me.  Here I wait, here I pout, wholly without skills, wondering why it is no one praises me like my mother did.  And if only I had the time to sit in sunshine instead of traffic, to breathe in beauty and express my perspective.  But I know that even if I had that time, if I could afford it or if it was given as a gift, I’d only spend it sleeping.

Most of the time, I’m hardly listening.  Most of the time, I have no idea what you’re talking about and it almost scares me how little I care.

I want to live a life of bravery.  I swear inspiration strikes my mind each day, the Hosts of Heaven standing around me, begging me, “Take it.”  But it’s interrupted by customer service calls. By messages.  These obligations that make up my life.  But really, when I’m honest, it’s mostly interrupted by my own fear.  My refusal to move when my instincts say, “Go.”  My insistence that I must be good at the things I do, which is why I’m not good at many things.

And I’m so bored of it, and so angry over the boredom.  And I don’t know what to do with it, this anger.  I believe that anger is necessary.  I believe, and have learned recently, that it tells us where our limits are.  It tells us where to go.  It is natural to feel it, it is only how we react to it that matters.

So, how do I react appropriately to my inability to thrive in a situation and my handicap toward changing anything about it?  What do I do with this anger at the mere reality of having to face daylight?  At this in-extraordinary pattern of mine.  At all of this saying words, saying words, saying so many words of absolutely no consequence.  

I am unreasonable.  I am out of line.  I am never settled or decided on how to feel.  I am elated and then fall back into despair too many times to count each day.  I “kick against the pricks” of this soft suburbia, of the bottomless appetite of construction zones that devour open space.  I am livid and rolling my eyes at the voices that whine at me through this millstone called a headset.  I am arguing with lifeless stoplights.  I am banging my fist into my steering wheel and yelling at complete strangers whose inability to take a left turn are about to make me late by three minutes.

I’m always late by three minutes.

And to fix it would only take a three minute change, which I, of course, find impossible.  I find myself limited.

I limit myself.

I’ve been drawn to what is soothing, to the idea of peace.  To what settles my strung-out nerves.  I can relate too well lately to the embers of a fire that, no matter how much water you pour, refuse to go out.

There is a disturbed and disturbing something very much alive inside of me that just won’t burn out.

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4 thoughts on “specificity.

  1. But it will burn out if you let it. Sometimes it takes a leap of faith to do so, but it will burn out.

    That fear, oh that fear is something that haunts me day by day. It is fear that drives me back into my comfort zone, back into my boring full time job, back into a place where I'm safe but unhappy. I hate the term YOLO but there is something about that phrase that rings true. Life is far too short to be lived behind a desk that inspires nothing but endless amounts of coffee and migraines.

    Taking that leap of faith may be the most stupid thing you ever do but it also might be the most rewarding. Try it! and if you fail, then there will certainly be another average job to fall back on. But just think about what could happen if you succeed!

    Like

  2. You are so good, Meg. I feel so much of this (as per usual. I'm a broken record with you but you are too good) The connection I find here comes from the beginning. I always wish I had more time to write and read and be for myself but yeah… when I do get that time I sleep. Is this depression or is this laziness? Is it the real me or is my life just exhausting me? Adult is hard. Limiting myself is hard. Let's work through this together, yeah?

    Like

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