It is the end of July, which is unthinkable in some respects. I am considering the whereabouts and the wherewithal of what it took to get me from where I was to where I am, which is here. Then again, where else could I be, if not here?
However, I am thinking more about the depth and the concepts and the specific value of time and how time matters in more ways than we think.
I am thinking about how time can either create space or distance between us and our goals, or somehow time can move us closer together as people, or send us further apart.
It is summer, of course. Our side of the hemisphere is tilted towards the sun, which is interesting to me. Then again, I have always found the rotation of the season to be interesting.
I say this because we are cyclical.
I mean this in the sense that summer is at its midway and we are fading from the heat and moving towards the cooler months of autumn, which is nice too.
I am no different from the seasons, in which I am just as cyclical. Then again, life is cyclical. Hence, we are all moving in patterns. We overlap and we interact. Like the warmer months, we often fade into the next season and prepare for the different colors of autumn and winter.
I have seen different patterns of color. I have experienced different nights of rain and thunder. I have lived through storms and survived the so-called hurricanes and seen some earthquakes as well. However, perhaps this is more figurative than literal, but still—
My point is that there was a time, which happened on this very same day, this time last year. So the question becomes where were we?
How were we?
Better?
Worse?
Good?
Bad?
Indifferent?
There is a ongoing shift in the world and the same goes with us. There is an ongoing shift that happens with life and, yes, time steps in to do one of two things—to mend the fences between our feuds, or to allow us to grow far enough apart.
So, we can heal.
I am no one different from the rest. I am special in my own right. Yet, I am no more special or deserving than you or anyone else in the world.
I have the right to fix or repair myself. I have the right to improve as I choose. Whether I am forgiven, believed or seen as sincere or otherwise, I have the right to earn my own dignity and respect. To put this as plainly as I can, looking for approval or acceptance and waiting to be forgiven or waiting for this to come from the outside does nothing to help me to repair my insides.
I am a person with a history. Just like you.
I have my own misconceptions and yes, I have my own misperceptions of self, of you, of the world and yes, I am afraid. I am insecure. I am weak. I am hopeful and I am unsure.
I am what I call, a normal, or regular, or an everyday person in this world to which I declare myself as imperfect and impetuous or impulsive and erratic.
I am both loving and hateful and like the yin and yang, I am a mixture of my own good and evil.
This means nothing other than I am human.
I am faulted and flawed but I am me—and sometimes, I am unstoppable. I am brave. I am able to roar and to move. I can go and be unafraid and unmoved by the odds against me.
I am the underdog. I am the one who never assumed that I would reach this place or get this far. Despite the challenges I have or despite my finances, despite my fears, despite my tiny wars and the quarrels that arise between my symptoms from the past and the worries of my future, somehow, I am here and now, alive and still moving.
It is safe to say that not everyone is for me or “on my side,” so-to speak. But it is not accurate to say that everyone is against me. Still—even if the entire world was against me and even if the slander bugs weaved themselves and burrowed in my ears and created a den in my soul—so what?
Who is on my side?
Who is not?
Who loves me?
Who hates me?
Who was there for me this time last year?
Who became so distant that even their familiarity became a cold and unknown stranger?
Life is cyclical, just like the rise and fall of the waves that crash upon the shore.
Or no different from the tides in the sea, which creep in upon morning, and drift outward by noon—depending upon nature, of course, everyone will undergo their own rise and fall.
We are no different.
I have seen the rise and fall of my life and the slow drainage where all the covering water pulls away to expose the empty sands in my heart and the remnants of trash, which have been left behind, like unwanted discards of beachgoers and local fools who do not care about the litter in someone else’s life.
At the same time, I have been drenched by the waves of good things; whereas I was alone and then I was in the presence of company—or whereas I was exposed and vulnerable, as if to be shamed and dirty and then suddenly (or fortunately) I was cleansed by the wake of Mother’s Earth.
I was washed and cleaned and repaired and redeemed.
To be clear, or clearer. . .
I cannot understand the wheres and whys of some things. I don’t know when the full moon will come next and sure, I can see the clouds and tell when the rains are coming—or I can experience the joy of a sun shower and see no insult in the rain beneath the perfect daylight without a cloud in the sky. However, no matter how bad the time is, I can rest and depend on the fact that this is only a temporary setback, unless I allow this to become permanent.
Of course . . .
I might not be wealthy. I might not fit the bill for you or for anyone else. I might be imperfect, and I might not be as beautiful as I had hoped. But I know there is something beautiful about me.
Even if I am the only one who sees it.
My ugliness has not become so cancerous that it has devoured my truest light, which might not flicker all the time.
But regardless, I am still beaming. Somehow
And to someone.
(I hope)
I never meant to be mean or misguiding and misleading.
I never meant to be too cunning or selfishly calculative.
I am sorry for my wrongs.
I am sorry for the blades in my words of how they cut so deeply. I am sorry for my old and unhelpful matters of survival, which are unneeded and unnecessary now. Therefore, to some degree, apologies are unheard or unwanted because whether I knew or not and whether I am sorry too late, none of this matters because knowing that we have wronged someone and wholeheartedly apologizing means nothing if the offense is repeated.
It is amazing to think of where I was this time last year.
It is amazing to think who was in my life as opposed to who remained and who is in my life now.
I am still weary and unsure.
I am still apart and too distant from my beauty; in which case, I am searching for a way to be beautiful and unmarked or cleansed.
I understand that whether I am cleansed or redefined and renewed, I have a past and I have made decisions which are off-putting and unacceptable to some.
I am not here to apologize again because it has come to my understanding that an ongoing apology is no longer an apology. No, after a while, this becomes manipulation and a need to feel right about something we did wrong.
Sometimes, the best apology and the best amends is to allow people the dignity of your distance—and since the world is both seasonal and cyclical, who knows what will happen when the summer comes back? Who knows what we will find when the beach will have washed the sands of our empty remnants are cleansed enough that we are free from the fights and free from the arguments—and more, who knows when or how long it will take for the resentments to rust away or subside enough to vanish?
When?
This often seems to be the question.
When is it enough time between two quarrels?
When are the wars at rest?
When do we heal?
I assume this has something to do with the understanding of self and the understanding that holding on or resenting someone is what drains us or steals our energy, and otherwise, this is not worthy of our time or attention.
Will I be angry about the same things this time next year?
I doubt it.
I’m not angry about the same things that happened this time last year.
At least—
Not anymore.
The world spins and while no one can feel the rotation, we can see the movement in the sky. We can tell by the movement of the seasons and the different cycles of life.
Time moves too—and while I can’t feel the clock as it ticks, I can see the space between my regrettable yesterdays—moving away from me, one day at a time.
The Written Addiction 