"The other function of your journal is to show you to yourself"~Kim AddonizioI have been trying really hard to write happy. I wish it wasn’t so hard. I mean, it isn’t hard to fake it, to write of rainbows and lollipops and unicorns. It just isn’t me.
I am not even sure why it matters so much to me. Why do I want to open my journal and fairy dust fall out. I think the why has to do more with perception then it does with reality.
I am a happy person. I really am. I swear. I am secure and safe. I am not a suicidal serial killer. I am not 13-year-old girl drama. I am not melodramatic or angry or depressed. Ok, maybe a little dramatic. But when I write from my soul, one might think otherwise.
I am trying to come to terms with this. Trying to accept it as just how I am. That it isn’t a sign of depravity, contamination or pollution. I have been trying. Trying really hard.
The following poem that I wrote today does no justice to my argument.
Starved, but not yet hungry
Innate, but not yet inherent
Contagious, but not yet infected
Tangible, tethered.
Autonomous
Stentorian, blatant
Inaudible
Canonical, orthodox
Defiant
Real, but not yet authentic
Permeable, but not yet translucent
Transitional, but not yet altered
No comments:
Post a Comment