Life Keeps Bringing Me Back To You

I had to light a cigarette for this one, Heart please forgive me.

I've been shedding skins. I know how temporary this surge of confidence will be, but it's a different shade, and it's not as desperate.

We've come full circle. I'm learing to let a lot of things go. The Come-What-May attitude I once cherished as my best feature (before Singledom and Infatuation and Love and Rent came circling around me with its posse of Defeat) is starting to work off her fatty layers of complacency. She got lazy, she got comfortable, and she got unhappy whenever she caught herself in the mirror. She's looking good again.

There's only one person who is able to send me spiraling back into that mess now, and I've decided to distance myself from him for good, no matter how well-intended his heart may be. We're just not right for each other, and I'm still too insecure to be able to take the reins. I haven't learned enough. He hasn't learned at all.

I'm not too worried, though. I'll see him again when Fate deems us ready. She always seems to think we are. Grin.

Even my writing has settled into this contentment. It's not overflowing with desperate, eager truth. I was so surrounded by uncertainty and insecurity for the past year and a half, maybe longer, that I was trying to create my own world of honesty -- if only to remind myself that I needed to have faith in something. If truth was my religion, why was I suddenly so unfamiliar with it? Why did I need it so badly? I'd lost respect for a lot of people that I thought were trustworthy, selfless, as open with me as I was with them. I figured it was reciprocal. I assume too much.

I used to write so differently. My voice changed into something I couldn't recognize, and it took a lot of fighting with myself to get here. I wasn't meant to be complacent. Will power is a muscle, and I gave up as soon as my arms started shaking under the weight. As much as I talk about progression and growth, I'm not surprised that underneath the surface, I was easily disheartened at the plateaus. I realized that I needed constant support, constant pushing, and that I relied too much on the wind at my back to propel me forward. I could climb easy, it's the walking that made me tired. When I found myself surrounded by dead air, I was at a loss. My mistake.

I've put the cigarette out. I'm still secretly glad that my lungs and body are rebelling against them. I hope I never lose the communication I have between my inner midget and myself, she is intensely in touch with my emotion and feelings. I just have to develop the connection between those things and, I don't know, concept. Action. Common sense. Logic. Feeling all the time and knowing exactly what word to place on that feeling is one thing, but how long can you read a story without a plot?

As much as writers like to believe that we transcend all planes of ordinary and stereotype, what are we really if all we do is label shit?