I'm aflutter. I don't know how else to say it. Feel like the parts of me are swirling about in the universe and occasionally I can catch a piece, but not keep it. That's to say that comfort visits like brief sporadic spasms of potato soup, golden girls, smell of garlic cooking, great book-chapter six. But, it doesn't stay. And for that reason, I feel really really odd.
I think the truth is this...I'm scared and so parts of me are fleeing. Parts that I have found and claimed are taking flight - no longer feeling good about being me - parts. So, that what's left standing is this shell of me. And what gets proven is that I have nothing to give. I am nothing. And I can only be nothing. Therefore, being something to someone just isn't in the book for me.
I am a flood inside. I feel like my body is full of water, tears, sadness, worry, pre-made grief.
I know what I wrote yesterday. And I am at a different place than I have been. Very. Different. And better, because now I can actually see what is going on. I think.
I just haven't put myself out there in a long time. And I've been safe to build a me, quietly. No intrusions. A controlled atmosphere. Planting seeds and nurturing little thoughts about being.
And then, what do I do? After all these years? I pay attention to what's going on outside of me for about ten seconds and spot a cute mechanic. And well, it's a snail's pace...but something could happen. And frankly, that terrifies me. Someone. in. my. life.
And this should be fun. Right? Just the idea should be fun. Should be playful. Should not be this. This - me in pieces.
I am being a Jackson Pollack painting. I am being the tale-tell heart. Knowing where it comes from is half the battle I suspect. And if I am patient, the answers to a peaceful soul and a bit of frivolity for spirit may come to me. I just hope so.