acceptance
I've been having more than one existential crisis.
I type out line after line, sometimes paragraph after paragraph, and I erase them.
Again, I hit the backspace. Again, I wipe it all out.
And again.
Change is inevitable. Perhaps I have changed. Perhaps I am a writer no more. Perhaps the click of my fingertips on the keyboard no longer holds the same magic. Perhaps I can no longer expect this machine to help me exorcise my inner demons, to allow me the self reflection that I am either unable or unwilling to manifest in other forms.
Perhaps it is that I now fear an audience. Perhaps I want to speak to you, and now that I want to speak to you I find that I can no longer speak to myself.
Perhaps it is not you but it is me. Perhaps I no longer have the patience for what it is that I have to say.
Another paragraph tumbles out of my head and into a sea of magic computer code. I erase it before I even know what I'm doing.
I have so much to say when I don't have time to write. Perhaps I simply don't wish to let go.
I've been hibernating. I've been surrounding myself with creature comforts in the name of gentleness. To some degree that has been a good thing, but I think I've gone too far. I've buried myself among so many fluffy comforters that I can't quite breathe. I can't see you because I've got the blankets over my head. I can't hear you because I've got the ear plugs in. It's not noisy tonight but I want to be prepared--just in case.
Let me plan for every contingency. Try to fend off every person and every thing that will break my heart into pieces too small to mend. Were I to let go then perhaps I'd finally feel that brilliant luminosity of the Great Eastern Sun, but I can't. I'm too worried about the pieces, too worried that my heart can't be greater than the sum of its parts. Worried that it must be even smaller now, and more unstable, now that I can no longer find all the pieces.
I contemplate this idea of my heart ground to dust. I imagine the dust as a gold powder, flakes in a miner's pan. I consider the idea that gold can always be reformed with a little heat.
Acceptance is the key when your heart is the consistency of dust. Acceptance, and not being afraid to sneeze.