And now it’s me, early morning, tired and wishing I was someplace else. But yet I am here, of course, exactly where I am supposed to be.
Then again . . . where else would I be?
I have come to the conclusion that we are all inherently and internally crazy. We are all crazy in our own perfect little way, which is not to suggest that crazy is a bad thing.
At least, not as I see it.
We all have our quirky little ways that make us unique.
I know I have mine.
I believe we all have secret thoughts that we would never share or tell anyone else in fear of silly embarrassment.
I know I do.
I talk to myself a lot. I do this all the time. I’ve argued with myself too, I think of usual and unusual things, and random things as well, like, for example; what language does my dog think in when he looks at me?
I watched a woman yell and argue about the faulty equipment in her office this morning . She was angry. She was aggressive too. But all I could see was a loose thread in the lapel of her suit jacket; as if the loose thread was somehow a detail indicative of her unknown personal life, which is less than as perfect as she tries to portray.
Everyone I know is going through something. Everyone has a trick they’re trying to pull of (or master.)
We all have our things. We all have our “Loose threads” so to speak and no one among us (as far as I know) has ever been able to go through life, unscathed or unbothered by life on life’s terms.
I was thinking about the last time I was in Florida to see my Mother. I knew it wouldn’t be long until the call would come. I knew her time was limited. I suppose I just hoped for the best and took the rest for granted.
I remember being in Mom’s room and going through her things. It felt so personal. I saw how she occupied her time. I saw how she occupied her lonesomeness, I found a picture cube with my voice recorded on it.
All the pictures were removed; perhaps, she removed them because the cube was old and from a time when I was dating a different girlfriend. T
he pictures were gone but m voice still played.
To hear the message, I pressed the red button to hear me say, “Happy Birthday, Ma. We love ya!”
Sometimes, little things are what get us through the biggest tragedies. Sometimes, a tiny piece of memory is enough to see us through anything.
Everyone has their own life and their own way of doing things. Nothing is so tragic to me anymore; except for tragedy itself that is.
By now, since we have all survived as far as we have; truth is we can live through anything. By now, how we are is how we are. Best is when we see us for who we are, without apology, and accept ourselves without wishing for a change
(I call that freedom.)
A while back, I came to a crossroads. I came to a place where it was clear; I needed to make a decision.
I didn’t want to be afraid anymore. I didn’t want to lose to my insecurity. I learned the crazy parts of me are far from my worst.
It’s good to laugh. It’s good to find humor in things. It’s okay to think random crazy thoughts.
We all do.
When I decided to make a commitment to write on a daily basis, I decided that I wanted to keep this pure. I wanted to keep this for me. I decided I would not write for the critics. I decided that I would not write to impress anyone. No, I just want to write for me.
A long time ago, I was told the definition of humility is simply being honest about one’s self. I learned that modesty is the absence of pride. And if I am ever to be a writer; this is the kind of writer I want to be.
This is my way to clear the air. This is my way to remove myself from the sorry daily inconveniences. There is no judgement here. I have the keys to type upon and a blank screen in front of me.
All I have to do now is just let myself go.
Truth is, I don’t mind sharing my thoughts with you. I don’t mind when strangers read and feel as if maybe they know me now because they don’t. Besides, I think the page protects me. I think this place I’ve created is what keeps me brave. I press the send button, and just like that, my thoughts take shape someplace else.
And it’s not about you or anyone else.
But I am grateful.
I’m grateful for it all
These words of mine have led me to see the world
To your world . . .
Your beautiful, crazy, little world
And I love every piece of it
The Written Addiction 