Yesterday’s post really struck a nerve. A lot of thinking went into that. To distill who you are as a person down to a few words, it really pulls your life into focus. And the more you think about it, the more you see where you are excelling and — even worse — where you are lacking. It’s been a long time since I did thinking like this. Years, probably. Because I am never quiet anymore. It is never just quiet. There used to be too much of it. So much that I would fight it off, filling it with childishness and stupidity. Now, I forget what it sounds like, what it tastes like.
Without the quiet I stop seeing who I am. The me of before and the me of now have diverged somehow. I suddenly remembered everything I used to value most. Everything that doesn’t seem to have a place in my life anymore. I only speak the hollow words.
I used to write, think, read. I used to know who I was and have an emotional connection to myself. Now, I am the product of all external influence. I have more confidence but much less to be confident in. My connection to nature is lost, replaced by mechanical things. Where is that soft and sunny life I expected to have? Fresh sheets and clean floors, warm breezes and tiny buds? I’ve forgotten how to read, how to write, how to think. I’ve forgotten how to feel like myself, sipping wine, smelling incense. Didn’t I want a garden and a view? Didn’t I want to try for the best? Didn’t I shun materialism and the vagaries of the hipster life?
Where is that woman? For, in truth, she seems more the grown woman and I the naive girl. She the one who knew what she wanted and I the one still struggling. I think it’s about time I did some reclaiming of the woman I used to be. Then maybe I’d have something really special to blog about.
