Tuesday, January 29, 2008

and suddenly I'm not. so. young.

I haven't had one of those breath taking moments lately. The kind that leave a soul full with certainty and a mind bundled in an almost euphoric, drunken state of precise perfection. Where the right word fits or a phrase seems profound and one simply knows, without any inkling of doubt that it should be recorded and shared. These days my life's all abuzz with goals to achieve and the inherent need to distract myself from the things I cannot change. I can't slow down, lest I would surely crumble beneath the overwhelming weight of my future. I'm right on the cusp of something big. I can feel it in the way my heart quickens, in the outside-in pull from a force beyond tangibility. I can feel it in my bones, as they say.

[whoever they may be]

I still struggle to balance, though. There is so much hinging on Right Now. I've got to be studious, strong willed, independent, driven, persistent, prudent, focused, creative, me, me, me. I've got to be my own version of so many things with less room this time around for faltering. I know it won't be perfect. That's not how life is, but I wonder if I can pull it all off just as I dream it. Can I possibly achieve all of my goals? I have yet to lose hope.

I feel like I've lost my [writing] voice. I feel like I used to be more interesting, less introspective, or maybe just a better, more interesting version of balanced. I'm starting to wonder if I can really BE a writer.

You can do anything you want...


I want to know where this relationship is going - where will we be in 6 months? a year? Will it turn out like the others where the thread just started unraveling before anyone knew what had happened, or could this be the definitive - IT? I have expectations that far exceed the atmospheric boundaries of reality. It's a weakness of mine - wanting certainty over taking chances.

"Every relationship is a gamble at best." a counselor once told me.

There's nothing wrong, nothing at all. Everything is strangely wonderful, actually. He's incredible, and so I guess it still feels foreign sometimes to think that I might possibly deserve this treatment. I guess I fear that if it seems too good to be true, it just might be. Don't read that wrong, it isn't that we float through this movie-esque existence. We have minor hiccups along the way, but he listens to me, we work it out, and then it's over - just like that. I'm not accustomed to so much civility.

If he's reading, I'm sure he's perplexed by the place whence this mention has been spurred.

I'm getting ready to close the door on an era of my life. I'll pull it shut behind me and turn to face the grimace and possibility of the Real World. It's everything, the whole huge entirety of EVERYTHING awaiting my next journey that gets me panicked about all that is to come. I want it all figured out - the future of us, which grad school, what job, what avenue of career choice, where to live, what city, what state, buy or rent, insurance...tremendous freedom and terror all lumped together.

I didn't say that any of this fret was justifiable, but I think parts of it are [at least very normal]. I need to breathe, take in an hour at a time, or maybe day by day, depending on the fluctuation of stress levels.

At the very least, I'm hoarse and out of practice. Anything I do write seems rushed. I hate that, and I hate it for anyone who takes to time to visit.

I read a blog today that was beautiful, the words danced and unfolded across the screen of my computer. I almost stopped to grab a pen and paper to record the sublimity of her word choice. I didn't, though. Instead I took a jab at myself, deflated my self confidence a little, and wrote this vibrant conglomeration of pessimism.

My fingers wouldn't stop.


La C. said...

It's true, you can do anything you want.

Maggie said...

I don't know you. In fact, this is my first visit. But you can be a writer. You already are.