"Kindness costs nothing."-IRISH PROVERB
For whom or what could you kneel and kiss the ground?
Looking into my dog's eyes right now, I could kneel to the ground, and kiss him. It's been a hard week for the both of us. He's been suffering his after-effects for getting into some treats he shouldn't have and I'm just exhausted. It's a strange occurrence when you get resentful because you care TOO much. I hope Jack knows how sorry I am when I want to be left alone in my room or watch a single episode of SVU in peace. I just needed my alone time. I hope he knows how much I love him.
I could kneel and kiss the ground for every person that's inspired me, disgusted me, and forced me to grow. We don't chose the lessons that life serves us, we can only choose the attitude in which we digest them, so that they may serve us to the best of their abilities. I kiss the ground for all the people I've met in my life and the one's I can count on my hand that I can call my friends. The people who see different shades of me on different days, some are agreeable, some are very disagreeable. Yet, it's the entire mix-matchup pallet that makes this creature. Lately, I've felt so frustrated. Frustrated by people, situations, missed opportunities, fear, and whatever else. In my depths of me, I want to kiss the ground and just thank whoever wants to listen that I'm happy to be alive, happy to be here. I want to make good of my time in this earth and shacked up in this skin. i want to make good on whoever created me and the puppeteer behind the nooks and crannies of my personality. I want to make good on MYSELF. It's a sure thing in every young woman's life that sooner or later you have to remind yourself that there is more to life than someone's hand to hold, more than the current eye of your affection, more than whether or not they like you back. We consume so much of our time and lives being worried about things we can't control. We worry away all our free time to enjoy life, experience something new, or just feel the waves of our breath shifting through the arteries. To me, it's impossible to love someone when you have not yet learned how to love yourself and being with yourself. Yet, like the feeble fucking creature I am, I stumble, I fall, and I wonder why so-and-so doesn't try/likeme/wanttohangoutwithme/whatever. WHO CARES? I always say that I want to create a good experience for myself, but by the looks of everything I haven't been doing a very good job. Happiness is an art and I want to create it every chance I get.
Like right now as I smile warming at these page full of words. Not thinking if what I said made any sense or if it sounds eloquent and fit for The Atlantic Weekly. The magnificence of life isn't hidden behind a great awakening or a swiss bank account. It's also in the deepest disasters and most troubling questions. Don't be afraid to step out and be present to it.
xo.
L.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
#18
"We empty ourselves to be filled with God. Even God cannot fill what is full."
-MOTHER TERESA
"What is true about you?"
Every time I see the question, I fill up with fear. What is my answer going to sound like? Will it be smooth and transitional? Jesus, what am I even going to say? What makes me feel most alive is something that I cower away from the most. I don't write because history has showered us with hundreds of other great puppeteers of the words. My own friends can even pen a beautiful paragraph or two. Complete strangers in classes being published and expressing their love of the word. At the risk of sounding idiotic and vain, I have no fucking idea where I fit in. I'm just a girl who knows how to write about life, experiences, and the jargon in my mind. It's where I come to figure things out (or at least make a really good attempt), to process, and to see growth. Fifteen year old me finished a notebook a lot differently then twenty-two year old me. It's where I come to rejuvenate and forget about the world for a little while. No one can touch me here and it's a place where even myself can't forsake and sin it with dishonesty. It's a time to sit, be quiet, and dive in to the great ocean that is me (or you). I tell myself often to never forget why I started writing. That once upon a time nobody even knew that I wrote or could form a decent sentence for that matter. Years of compliments didn't give me a big head, it gave me fear and pressure. While age has led me to be deeply grateful for the gift of orchestrating words, I often feel cramped by the audience. If I write this will they still think I'm a good writer? If I'm such a good writer how come nobody ever comments on anything? What is this fuckery? It became less about writing for me and more about writing for the reader. The words suffered, which ended up in me suffering (sometimes I would even cry at night because I just "wanted the words back"). So here's to a new me, a new time to explore the words, and be deeply inspired by the fact that you never stop evolving as playwright of these delicate letters. You don't need a bad day, a complicating love, or a loss to fill up the space with material. All you need is the confidence to speak and to speak truthfully.
With that being said, what I know is true about myself is that I have no idea how to be anyone but me.
A work in progress but me, none the less.
Welcome to it.
xo.
L.
-MOTHER TERESA
"What is true about you?"
Every time I see the question, I fill up with fear. What is my answer going to sound like? Will it be smooth and transitional? Jesus, what am I even going to say? What makes me feel most alive is something that I cower away from the most. I don't write because history has showered us with hundreds of other great puppeteers of the words. My own friends can even pen a beautiful paragraph or two. Complete strangers in classes being published and expressing their love of the word. At the risk of sounding idiotic and vain, I have no fucking idea where I fit in. I'm just a girl who knows how to write about life, experiences, and the jargon in my mind. It's where I come to figure things out (or at least make a really good attempt), to process, and to see growth. Fifteen year old me finished a notebook a lot differently then twenty-two year old me. It's where I come to rejuvenate and forget about the world for a little while. No one can touch me here and it's a place where even myself can't forsake and sin it with dishonesty. It's a time to sit, be quiet, and dive in to the great ocean that is me (or you). I tell myself often to never forget why I started writing. That once upon a time nobody even knew that I wrote or could form a decent sentence for that matter. Years of compliments didn't give me a big head, it gave me fear and pressure. While age has led me to be deeply grateful for the gift of orchestrating words, I often feel cramped by the audience. If I write this will they still think I'm a good writer? If I'm such a good writer how come nobody ever comments on anything? What is this fuckery? It became less about writing for me and more about writing for the reader. The words suffered, which ended up in me suffering (sometimes I would even cry at night because I just "wanted the words back"). So here's to a new me, a new time to explore the words, and be deeply inspired by the fact that you never stop evolving as playwright of these delicate letters. You don't need a bad day, a complicating love, or a loss to fill up the space with material. All you need is the confidence to speak and to speak truthfully.
With that being said, what I know is true about myself is that I have no idea how to be anyone but me.
A work in progress but me, none the less.
Welcome to it.
xo.
L.
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