I feel like, lately, I'm saying the same things over and over. I feel like I'm turning into a cliched and excessively flowery diarist, writing to prove to myself (and the world, I cannot deny this) that I am beautiful.
I go back and read my entries, looking for a spark in me. Looking for the same spark I might find within a new lover, or a crush, or even a fellow diarist that holds me tightly under her spell. (Like the first time I read overtaken) I read today, and yesterday and weeks ago. I read about the pain I've gone through during the past year, and the pain I went through during the year before. And I find myself liking myself more and more.
I find myself today as a whole person. When I write it feels soft and smoothly shiny, like the layouts of the beautiful abstract diaryland poets. I find myself floating through deeply tinted satin sheets, my body naked, and covered only partially by seemingly random yet well-placed folds of luxurious bedding.
When I walk away from this place, I enter the world. And my image of myself in this world varies widely. When I come to diaryland, I appear as an insightful, knowledgeable, eloquent woman. When I leave, I often feel more like a girl. A plain (sometimes ugly) ordinary girl, frightened by many things, younger at heart than I'm willing to admit. Sometimes I see myself and feel disgust at my lack of accomplishment, my awkward anxiety, my oblivion and lack of sense.
But I am growing, and expanding, and coming into myself. I am far more beautiful than I was a month ago, a season ago, a year ago.
A year ago... Dare I even say what I'm thinking? It's coming back around now. Back around to where we all met in Boston, back around to where we will all meet in Boston once more.
But I won't be there this time. I will be resting comfortably within myself. I will be lying in bed naked covering myself only to warm my skin, not my heart.
I won't be brought down.
And for the first time in my life, I believe I have finally rid myself of anyone that might try to bring me down...
...except for myself.
Each day I come out with a few less bruises than the day before. I've traded my large stick for a smaller one. I've learned how to give my heart completely, and still keep it completely within the delicate palms of my hands. I've learned that I need to be able to trust the softness that so many others have told me exists at the tips of my fingertips. I've learned that I can cradle myself in the space between my lover's arms.
Everyday I am more beautiful. The wind blowing through my hair, leaving bits of mult-colored leaves reminds me of that.
And I come here, to this place, and I try to show myself that, to lay it out with words written into images written into a soul. My soul.
I don't believe I have ever, in the two decades I've been alive (hardly impressive) felt quite as content as I feel right now, in this moment, with my aggravating boss buzzing around my tired eyes and stubborn ears, the imminent apartment hunting putting a knot in my chest to go with the tired ache in my back, and three large canker sores just inside my lip.
Because I am whole. Because I write beauty (some would even say beautifully). Because It seems as though finally (dare I say it?) I am starting to learn how to live.
15:24 - Wednesday, Oct. 15, 2003
Recent entries:
- - Monday, Dec. 31, 2007
The Moments to Live For - Saturday, Dec. 15, 2007
message of Christmas Peace - Friday, Dec. 07, 2007
just a bunch of breast tissue - Wednesday, Dec. 05, 2007
a poetry reading - Friday, Nov. 30, 2007
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