It’s difficult to explain. The magic of life is always there. I know it. It’s just only sometimes am I the version of myself who can see it, feel it in its constant and ever-present manner. At those moments, it feels as if time is fluid. It seems that reality folds back into itself. Everything turns clear and pure as in sunlight. I radiate, reaching outward, and I can almost touch it. I’m eavesdropping on my dreams, on these parts of myself that only barely dare to breathe. But then, all too abruptly, a current rolls in and I’m banished back to me.
What it comes down to is all my life I feel I have made attempts, but have never achieved.
I cannot find the way around this, the one obstacle I keep circling back to, the Hellion I have wrestled with — and feel bound to continue to struggle with — all of my life.
I pretend to be a musician. I endeavor to write. I work at taking photos. And I’m left, over and over again, feeling foolish for ever thinking I could be what I imagined so clearly in my mind. I have such shame and embarrassment for ever even dreaming. Oh, and do I ever dream.
To attempt, it seems, is to bob in and out of consciousness of my own inadequacy. But not to attempt, to give up entirely — that is drowning.
It’s 3:11am. Since losing my full-time employment, I’ve tried not to slip into my old habits of nighowlry. But I wonder, sometimes, if something has been a habit all your life, does that mean it might simply be your nature? It seems this is mine. Tossing and turning into the early morning with notions of what might be, waking up late, paralyzed with the reality of what is, and, not to be forgotten, the seemingly unreconcilable chasm between the two.