These are strange days in my life. The world is at my feet. I can become whoever I care to, I can drastically alter my life course by deciding so. I can break away; I can settle down (OK, in theory). But this limbo space is crushing and brutal. It awakens every insecurity I’ve ever conceived; it challenges my faith in human will.
I watch others. I am mesmerized. The artist in me wants to capture the moment and movement in poignant representation (a photo, a painting, a word, a sweep of emotion), while the cynic, the small voice, the lost child wants to disengage, and if not that — because humanity rushes like torrential waters, drenching me with sound and smell, sight and taste — then merge, embrace, become one with the energy. They seem committed, rushing to school to work to psychotherapy to farmer’s markets, devoted to a cause. Their steps, oh-so-directed, shout, “I belong here. I have purpose. I have somewhere to go.” I know this is a delusion, provoked by my (again) insecurity; we all struggle for space and air.
But, but. Where am I? Who am I? Oh, how I’ve wanted to avoid those words, as difficult to utter as “I love you.” They upstage the search, perhaps trivialize the experience. There is clarity ahead, somewhere. I await it. I will search for it; I will try.
(Now I feel I’ve officially joined the ranks of bloggers spewing stuff, psychobabble, dull ramblings. They [bloggers, that is] come in two kinds: politically outspoken warriors or internally gutted self-effacing Generation Y’ers. I hope I’ve gotten it out of my system, though I suspect not.)
