A Garden of Delights

November 16, 2009

I’m trying to write to settle my head. Too many thoughts and I’m not really sure what they mean. For all my constant thinking. it’s so very clear I really don’t do much thinking on the things that actually may affect me. Until they do… Everything is academic until the end of the class comes, but I guess that was weeks ago. I realize now I never actually took the tests–Heck, I didn’t even know there were tests, or grades!

Am I really this obtuse?

I’d say I’m hurt, but I don’t think it’s true. Certainly not as I go deeper into my thoughts. But the more I delve, the more confused I get, the more I can say and admit my own self-conscious fears. I see answers to little personality tests that suggest a fear of abandonment and I try to laugh it off. But it’s true. But it’s not so much a sexual/romantic fear: It’s a fear of losing people/friends in general…of completely losing touch with the world and those around me. Of not existing anymore, or of becoming a drone that simply does for others without being anything else ever to anyone else.

A part of me know this is foolish. But it is far more penetrating that I had thought. I look at what I do….

I write–> I make myself exist in as permanent a form as I can to make my place in this world real and inviolable. I write because I feel a need to prove I was here. And I seldom actually delete my stories — even the crappy ones. I use all the excuses: there are some good ideas there; there is a measurable gauge of my growth as a writer; they don’t take up THAT much space.

Other things –> I try to help others and volunteer obsessively: I want to be needed, appreciated. I want to be remembered fondly. I want to be–> It drives each of these statements: to be–> to exist.


Where Do We Go?

And I want to not be lost to those I care for and love, like my husband, my son, my friends and my family. I am less jealous of their attention, I think, than so self-conscious of how short all of this really is.

And yet, I am so very selfish. I want to write, and I WILL write, before I will curl up with my son and a story book. I can try to lie that writing or reading or exercising (the distractions are endless), the acts of recharging, of becoming a better person are as much for him as me. But it is for me most of all. It is my way of being able to slow down and stop seeing the world as it spins and whirls, a dervish touching me with its madness. I read–I allow myself to be distracted, taken away to where the rest of the world doesn’t matter–to where the rest of the world doesn’t exist–to where I no longer matter.

If I abandon them first, won’t it hurt less to be abandoned?

When did I become such a spoiled, selfish prig?

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