Sometimes things just hit you in the face. They hit you
hard. And afterwards, no matter what you do, no matter what needs to be done, you can't stop thinking about that feeling. That smack in the face makes you realize things you never wanted to realize. It's like hard lighting - sure, you can see everything, but nothing looks pretty, nothing looks as it should, and that is because it
is as it is.
It's simple and far too complex to understand at the same time.
I have made many mistakes in this life. It might not look that way to some, but it is one truth among an ever-dwindling few. These mistakes have been thrown under hard lighting and I now see everything as it is. Just like I saw the full bottle of green sprinkles, sitting next to the nearly empty bottle of orange sprinkles as I got out the baking powder today. Just as I saw myself desperately try to ignore them. And that's when I knew, when I really knew, that I wasn't dealing with this.
I drew comparisons that should have never been made and I still do that every moment of every day. My life is a list of comparisons. Like mathematical equations, but without numbers. I am not okay with all of the things I will never be able to call my own. All the memories I will never be able to make. And I want all of that to amount to something. I want it to count for something in this life.
For months, I tried to force it into my work. I tried to make it fuel my passion. All of my dissatisfaction was supposed to lay the foundation to the rest of my life. That's how artists work, right? All of it was supposed to be justified in my work. Boy, did I try to justify it.
It is ridiculous to even verbalize it all. The magnitude of the event does not match the magnitude of my aftermath. But, I've never really been good with proportions. So this hard light is painful even here, in this ambiguous prose.
I continued to run from all of this for so long, even after I said, no, proclaimed, I was finished. I said I was done, but I was only trying to throw you off my trail.
To be clear, I was running from two things: The heart I broke and my failure to pour my own heart into something that would explain why I broke it. Other than, of course, simply being an idiot. Everything else (read: my lack of passion and my bitterness towards the fact that my life will never be normal) was all ready there. It just added to all of it. This was all very clear, I trust?
Oddly enough, while I was running and hiding from this and a many other things, I discovered something. A beautiful story. It said everything I wanted to say. At first, I made comparisons, naturally. I saw my own tale of love and heartbreak here. But this story was beautiful. Too beautiful to be mine. I realized I wasn't that lucky. That I would never be that lucky. And that is when the spotlight hit me and everything around me.
I have lived much longer than a single year, and yet I let a single year rule me. It is insanity, I know, but I cannot declare some new way of living quite yet. I know only a few things happened in this single year--not enough to make or break a lifetime. I know there is not enough in this single year, in particular, to make my story. I should stop trying to force it. That doesn't mean I am going to though. If I were really to pick a single year to draw from, it would probably behoove me to pick this current one. But that is presumptuous.
My life is not story-worthy yet. I have lived through more things than most, but I cannot bear the sight of them outside of my heart own heart yet. I am not ready for that.
Until then, I will take my place as a conduit. I want to show the world the beauty I have found. I did not make it. I have not made anything like it in the least. I could hardly say that I have thought something like it. And, as far as I am concerned, that's perfectly fine. I only hope that one day I will be lucky enough to share it. But that is also presumptuous.
While I was so busy running, I should have asked for directions.
