This could be the influence of the wine, but very often I feel so spun out on the inside that I can’t find anything to focus on.
When I was a little girl, I remember wanting to be a singer… an actress… a model. A doctor. Teacher. A Triple Crown thoroughbred champion. An artist. A mom—I wanted to be everything. I was always told that I could be anything I wanted, but I never had any solid direction. I’m not blaming anyone else for my own indecisiveness. I knew I was capable of becoming anything I imagined, but everything I imagined came in whims—vivid flashes that vanished when the fear of actually succeeding came to light. I guess that makes me a coward.
I still struggle with it all.
I see so many outcomes. So many possibilities. And it’s crippling. Everything whips around so fast in this skull of mine, that my feet are resigned to staying firmly planted. So I write. I document everything—every thought and every feeling. Painting, poetry… notes in a journal… This. I just document. What for… I have no idea. I just feel like it’s important for now. I still very much hope that this somehow helps someone… in some way.
My thoughts are so loud and rapid, that I can’t even just have a conversation sometimes. Maybe that’s why I’m a bit awkward and quiet in social situations of any kind. I really hate it most times. Having to try so hard. Trying and not being. To have tried is to have failed. It just sucks failing so much.
I feel dismal for long periods of time, and then I gain the company of someone who’s so hopeful and inspiring, that it makes me let go of the negativity for a moment. To listen to a person’s drive pouring out of his voice, and to see a blaze behind his eyes is invigorating.
It reminds me that the purpose is the journey. We all have the same destination. I just need to find my purpose.