Thursday, April 19, 2012
on the verge of progression or regression
Its funny how when we are on the cusp of something…greatness perhaps—is when life is at its hardest.
When you know you're one step away from starting the next great chapter of your life, your loathed to turn the page.
Its fear pure and simple, what happens on that next page, is the evil villain of the past lurking around the corner? Will the heroine run from the frying pan into the fire? Is the success she’s long dreamed of really waiting or is there just more of the past waiting. The same insecurities the same failures all dressed up in different scenery?
Has she finally shed the dull grey cocooning and grown butterfly wings…and do those wings work. Will they catch air? Can she fly?
And what of those she holds dear. Even though the very blood in her is racing to go forward, her heart whispers that she still needs the acceptance she was searching for to begin with, even though she knows its illogical. How can she express a sense of feeling outgrown, or perhaps replaced, in a life she didn't orchestrate, but hoped would play out to at least not damage her any more than the life she had to transition from before? That in a quest for acceptance she felt alienated and pushed aside. At war with whom she wanted to be and that which is within her. The wisdom that everyone thinks she possesses tells her that even though she moves forward and grows from the lesson of her past, her past is still there and in as much as it exists so will to will the longing she’s always known.
All the success in the world will not fill that which is empty now.
So “should she give up or should she just keep chasing pavements, even if they lead nowhere…or would it be a waste even if she knew her place should she leave it there…”
And what of those who are reading along with her, waiting on baited breath for her to leap?
How is she to tell them that her feet are leaden, that even if one of them were to race up and shove her from behind her knees would wobble and bend but she doubted she could go over the edge? That if the very earth crumbled beneath her she claw and the shallow and long dead roots and tumbling stone, clinging to what was behind, eyes clinched in fear afraid to see what lay a head.
What words can she give those whom she has viewed less passionately, though faithful and steadfast in their loyalty, they aren’t the balm she seeks. Its true, she’s loved them too. But she aches because she didn't love them the same. Has she disregarded their love? Has she truly honored their friendship, been a good steward of their faith? For some she was the one to give that might round house to the back. Watched as they hid away from the sun. Spied them climbing the letters of the page with a grappling hook and sheer determination. Watched them stick the pages together so they could not be turned. Turn out the lights so the readers of their own stories could not see. Waited patiently by when they dropped in to nowhere.
How can she express anger at their lack of patients for her own growing pains? Disdain for what feels like hypocrisy? Annoyance at their concern? Aggravation at her weakness in needing them so? Anger because she shouldn't need anyone...need causes confusion and pain. Need..she doesn't want to need. Need is an emotion and she doesn't want to feel. Feelings leave fear. Fear because she doesn’t know? It doesn’t matter the question, the answer is simply, “I don’t know.”
How can she explain that before this most momentous leap, she must actually regress. Shed the façade that is so recognizable that even she’d become to believe? She must be re-immersed in her true self…wallow if you will in all those old insecurities, drowned, mired or baptized by them.
And then when the two converge, become one…the past and the present , then maybe the driving bass of dubstep can thrill the blood in her veins and with glee she can fall over the edge of the cliffs of greatness and sail. The sultry beat, pulsing with life and freedom. Finally, freedom. And Inner peace because the war is not with her past, or with the person turning the page. The angst is all imagined, all with in her own head and she controls it all..controls the ever revolving record of melancholy and woe. She controls the turning of the page. maybe not the adventures, but if she'd just turn that damn page,