Sometimes I feel like my head is full of so many things, so much input, that the inside of my skull must look like a radar scan of a hurricane. Everything flying around in there, thoughts bashing against each other, and me standing in the tiny eye of the storm watching ideas, instructions and theories whipping by my astonished eyes. I’m careful not to move much to prevent being beaned by anything that might cause damage.
I like taking a lot in and sorting through it all. I like testing the things I learn on myself to see if it’s true. I love it when something proves true and takes me in the direction I want to go, and I have no trouble kicking aside the things that do me no good.
I consider myself a life experiment.
I love ideas and practices that bring me a new understanding, whether it be of an old behavior or the benefit of a new way of perceiving. I have, many times, gleefully stitched to myself something precious to take the place of thoughts and behaviors I’ve so ruthlessly removed.
I am creating FrankenShell.
Isn’t it strange that, at times, the most major shifts come from the most simple, quiet and repetitive things? I always expect the next epiphany to come with some major experience and great fanfare, but it never does. It is always a soft and constant whisper that I only hear hidden inside the white noise of life jabbering at me.
I’ve taken the time to relax much of what I allowed to puppeteer me, so to speak. I read such a wide variety of genres, I listen to an equal blend of audios and write in whatever mode presents itself to me at any given moment. I suppose I’ve allowed my heart and mind to rejuvenate.
The past two years have battered me with trivial things.
I call it death by paper cuts. Isn’t that how love for anything usually dies? Anais Nin speaks of the negligence, the lack of willingness to see or nurture that which we say we love. We live what others say we should, do what others say we should, try to build someone else’s picture of how we should be.
We lose ourselves in living the picture others have of us.
I am acquainted with a published author whose words are so deliciously woven that it makes my heart smile to read them. I remember when she withdrew from a course that sought to change her voice. I remember how she shared with me that she could not allow that to happen, that she had to remain true to herself in spite of the strong pull of the instructor to replicate itself.
I admire her more than I can say.
Today, something struck my heart with the same velocity a storm force wind can power a fragile piece of straw to impale a wooden post.
I remembered today that I am a teller of stories. I re-read the 54 pages I’ve written and hidden over and over again. I asked myself what I would I love doing even if I knew I would fail. What do I love doing? What makes me happy? What brings me life in technicolor? What will I do even if I never see a single dollar of profit from it?
I am the teller of this story.
I will write until…