I am dissolving, into the ink-drawn vision of a woman, the kind who is disappearing behind her hair and turning away from you toward a future unknown.
I can't pull myself away from art today, and I am hungry for meaning. Every time I see an over-easy egg, I think of the Counting Crows.
How do we know if the choices we're making are taking us toward or away from our dreams? My ma asked if I was making progress in the resolution of my marriage today. I laughed and told her that it's tough to know what progress is when you don't know where you want to go.
It's possible that my I've made complete insanity out of my life. I've called a hiatus on one of the key relationships that kept me from utter disaster post marriage. I've developed friendships I never expected. I've created this strange space of truth that, contrary to expectations, makes each of us sad, though I feel, too, as if the rains have finally come. I've friends who I love (and who love me) with a fierceness I can't comprehend. I've seen beauty and joy in the smallest of moments. I've experienced rage and hatred so strong they unravel me. I've felt a passion I thought I'd lost. I've rekindled the spark in my soul that moves me on, faster and wilder, toward a future that may not exist, but that I reach for with an aching desire.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Day 38
Going Down Rough
I want to carve the truths of my being on my skin, to create in reality the cartography M. Ondaatje writes about so beautifully. I want to be permanently scarred by the stories that created me. To remind me when I am lost and confused and alone and terrified of all the places I've been, of the ones who have loved me and left, the ones who have stayed, and of the millions of empty inches waiting for their story to be told.
It is not the same skin here today that lived and breathed the stories of yesteryears and this skin now is just a fleeting moment before the future. These cells will dissolve away into dust and memory. If I do not record my history on my body, how will I ever remember the truth?
I want to carve the truths of my being on my skin, to create in reality the cartography M. Ondaatje writes about so beautifully. I want to be permanently scarred by the stories that created me. To remind me when I am lost and confused and alone and terrified of all the places I've been, of the ones who have loved me and left, the ones who have stayed, and of the millions of empty inches waiting for their story to be told.
It is not the same skin here today that lived and breathed the stories of yesteryears and this skin now is just a fleeting moment before the future. These cells will dissolve away into dust and memory. If I do not record my history on my body, how will I ever remember the truth?
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