Dad said it has been awhile since I've posted. I was doing well for awhile. I'm dealing with a sore hand. Poor excuse.
For some reason, I don't feel like this post is going to be incredibly chipper. Part of it could be I just watched Precious for the first time. If any movie could humble you into complete silence and remind you how lucky you are, it's Precious.
The thing is, I get these one-liners that jump out and stick themselves into the walls of my brain. Most of the time they are statements, plain and simple, that could be turned into something more. Usually a poem or maybe a rambling blog post. But they are always one simple sentence that means something to me. Lately, they haven't been coming around. A lot of uncertainty and doubt has filled their usual spots instead.
I'm worried.
I can't imagine being good at much.
That someone would feel like I would be a perfect fit.
Just what they are looking for.
I've never been a stand-out,
the girl with something like potential.
I figure if I did, someone would've found it by now.
Dad says creativity can't be taught.
But in this day and age,
where everyone is special and nobody is perfect,
creativity is part of everybody's resume.
I'm not sure that I have much more to my name.
I still feel like a 12-year-old who has so much to learn,
but is expected to understand it like someone who has been there before.
If I could just write, I would.
Honestly, I would.
I would sit at a desk that sits underneath a window so the sunlight would pour in,
and I would drink green tea and listen to Regina Spektor,
and write down pages and pages of interesting and inspiring words,
spoken by multi-dimensional characters who have something to lose,
and who everyone can somehow relate to in their own specific ways.
I would emulate Sylvia Plath and be the next female American novelist,
maybe win a few Pulitzers.
I would.
But my dream belongs to millions, and millions achieve it.
I am nothing special, if not bland in the middle, right after you take a bite, expecting something sweet.
If I could have anything in the world; be anyone in the world; do anything.
I would live in a nice flat in London, my husband would be there with me of course, (this would mean he would have to like traveling, even a little bit), and I would get up in the mornings, make a small breakfast, write a few chapters, or a few poems, stroll down and buy a scarf at Camden Market, maybe sit in a coffee shop in Picadilly and people-watch while drinking more green tea, go back home and spend time with my husband before returning to my work. I would write books about life, about things that matter, about people who live their lives. Maybe their lives aren't incredibly significant. Why does every story have to have this tremendous plot twist, or a character who is some type of hero? What happens to people who just live normal lives? Aren't they part of this world, too?
It's incredibly difficult to be someone who is always restless.
Don't get me wrong, I am happy in life. I'm a firm believer in making your life matter and being happy on purpose. But I have tasted so many wonderful things in my life, I have seen so many rolling hills and interesting people, it is so hard to push pause.
I haven't allowed myself to believe that I will never travel to Europe again. It is probably the truth, as it is, to a lot of people and most likely myself included, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But I think I dropped a few chunks of my soul over there. Do you know what it is like to miss parts of your soul? It's almost like you are never put together properly. Parts of you are smelling the English rain or eating crepes at the street vendor across from that small park that sits next to Notre Dame. You sit in your small town, in your car and you get these whiffs, you get this taste in your mouth, and you are transported back. It makes you ache.
But it is hard to feel like I will be much more than this. I write silly nonsense and dream doodles, I don't write things that are serious or business-like. Not much else can fit in my head.
This post has made me sad.
