I've been much too deep inside my own head lately. Introspection requires a lot of heavy lifting, and I'm exhausted. I need a vacation, or recess at least - a wild romp on the playground, and wind in my hair.
See. This takes work, people. In fact, it is grueling. It never fails to elicit some rueful laughter and a deep need to reach out in a resounding bitch slap when someone tells me, "You're so strong. You have such insight. You have it so together."
Not hardly. I'm an emotional gallimaufry and 95% of the time I react to things from the depths of that bubbling goo. I mean, I'm certain of about 1¾ things in this life and the rest of the time I'm just winging it, and constantly checking my ass in the mirror.
I think the biggest difference (between me and some others) is that I'm open about it. I talk about it. I write about it. I get the shit out in the daylight where it can at least be shoveled into a neat-ish pile. In fact, even though I used to be supremely guilty of it myself, I don't understand how people can keep everything bottled up and hidden inside. It's impossible to really live that way.
And so, it appears that I'm appreciated for the simple act of lying naked on a surgical table for the world to see.
Sometimes it feels like I'm taking credit for making my own dinner, or doing my own laundry. Y'know? This is just me living. This is just me trying to get along in my own life. This is just me... being.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to finger paint.