I need joy, I need joy. Music is key. I need to feel tears of complete spiritual fulfillment and song within my heart. I need that magical, enchanted sensation flowing through my veins. I need color, texture, form, shape, and vibrancy.
I can't seem to stay in the present. Worry makes me work hard planning for a future I have no knowledge of. I'm always insecure. Where will I live? Will I have enough money? Will I be on the street? What if all this work, all this internal energy and turmoil, was all for nothing and I'm just a nobody in the end? I've got a major protector part who simply can't let that happen.
Love. It seems so rare. Yet so vital. And what ever is it? Sometimes I like to settle in to thoughts of love, not caring if I'm making it up or still completely clueless about what it really means. Who cares, when your imagination can make you feel good, even if it's temporary.
I am scattered and sprawled over too many passions, too many dreams, too many silly hopes and desires. My arms ache from the constant reaching and stretching. I hold on until they're about to fall off and when I finally rest, it's so comfortable I would rather just stay there and never make another move.
Once in a while, something comes up and I feel useful again. Life has some little meaning for me, reserved in a quiet place (and sometimes in a more boisterous one). I appreciate those moments. It's sad I can't predict them.
At the end of the day, maybe all I need is a long, tight, warm embrace.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Whose is this face?
I'm writing this on Cubanita Chronicles and not my other blog because it's in English... I should definitely be writing in Spanish, but I'm so full of emotions and frustrations that I need my mother tongue.
So I'm having a hard time. (What else is new?) In fact, I didn't think this would happen to me. I thought that coming to Spain would change a lot of things. I thought I would feel better. I thought I'd be awesome and engaged and actively involved in the culture and people of this amazing city. (By writing "amazing" I'm actually trying to convince myself that that's what I believe.) Granted, it's only been two and a half weeks, but I already have a head full of distress and ready to burst.
I don't even know what my problem is. I have some hypotheses, but that could be a load of bullshit. I do believe that life is generally what you make of it. Of course, we're all dealt different hands and some people legitimately have it harder to begin with. I can't honestly say I'm one of those people, since I am here in this program and have a loving family that supports me, so that adds guilt to my list of woes. I walk by people every day on the street who are definitely worse off and my heart cries out for them. But I don't know what to do other than pray.
It's like this: I know who I am, more or less, and I know she's pretty fucking incredible. (She's also become a bit harsh, if you can't already tell.) I look in the mirror and see someone beautiful. I look in my heart and see so much talent and originality. But somehow, I can't seem to get through a day truly believing and feeling that all at once. The woman in the mirror is another person, someone I desperately want to get to know. She's someone I'd aspire to be. She's confident and graceful and likeable. Her very presence attracts respect and admiration from others. She's the epitome of femininity and power (the positive kind).
The woman inside my heart is hidden and screaming. She's been out of the house before, but doesn't always get a chance. The silence is torturous.
When I recap in my mind what I've said to people, how I've behaved throughout the day, I am appalled that I still wear this face I see in the mirror. How could I betray her? How could I consistently sabotage a perfect opportunity to give her the limelight? What a shame. What a terrible, terrible shame.
And then I look out my window and see life. I see a view that's new and foreign to me. I smell smoke (oh, you know it) and hear cars and children that keep me awake at night. But I also hear Spanish. Lots and lots of Spanish. It's the language of my mother's parents that has always intrigued me so. This is my dream that I'm supposedly living, right here and right now. I'm living abroad. I'm an expat. I have arrived at one of the many places on my list.
But it doesn't automatically invoke a sense of fulfillment. What's actually out there, beyond the street I see from my window? Is there anything or anyone waiting for me? I've got to get it. Or I could just exist, become one with the crowd and sink into the masses with mundane sobriety. I could walk the streets, look up at the buildings, and never find the woman who truly owns the face I wear. I am a fraud, an imposter. And not even a good one -- as soon as I open my mouth, I am undone. All my ugly, crumbling infrastructure becomes truth and the world returns to its more important business. I resign to time.
It flies faster than the speeding Vespas and the more I think about it, the more I mourn what I know I'll have lost in the future. By then maybe I'll have met her, the woman to whom this face belongs. But maybe her body won't be worn out and tired and she'll no longer want the face because it still won't match. It never will. So I'll always be carrying what I don't own. I'll have to either learn to forget her or try to do her justice. Who knows what that looks like.
Ed is also a problem and he's everywhere. The Beautiful Woman is too strong to care but another part is weakening... It'll all be okay, though. It always is, in the end. God has a funny way of taking care of me when I least expect it.
So I'm having a hard time. (What else is new?) In fact, I didn't think this would happen to me. I thought that coming to Spain would change a lot of things. I thought I would feel better. I thought I'd be awesome and engaged and actively involved in the culture and people of this amazing city. (By writing "amazing" I'm actually trying to convince myself that that's what I believe.) Granted, it's only been two and a half weeks, but I already have a head full of distress and ready to burst.
I don't even know what my problem is. I have some hypotheses, but that could be a load of bullshit. I do believe that life is generally what you make of it. Of course, we're all dealt different hands and some people legitimately have it harder to begin with. I can't honestly say I'm one of those people, since I am here in this program and have a loving family that supports me, so that adds guilt to my list of woes. I walk by people every day on the street who are definitely worse off and my heart cries out for them. But I don't know what to do other than pray.
It's like this: I know who I am, more or less, and I know she's pretty fucking incredible. (She's also become a bit harsh, if you can't already tell.) I look in the mirror and see someone beautiful. I look in my heart and see so much talent and originality. But somehow, I can't seem to get through a day truly believing and feeling that all at once. The woman in the mirror is another person, someone I desperately want to get to know. She's someone I'd aspire to be. She's confident and graceful and likeable. Her very presence attracts respect and admiration from others. She's the epitome of femininity and power (the positive kind).
The woman inside my heart is hidden and screaming. She's been out of the house before, but doesn't always get a chance. The silence is torturous.
When I recap in my mind what I've said to people, how I've behaved throughout the day, I am appalled that I still wear this face I see in the mirror. How could I betray her? How could I consistently sabotage a perfect opportunity to give her the limelight? What a shame. What a terrible, terrible shame.
And then I look out my window and see life. I see a view that's new and foreign to me. I smell smoke (oh, you know it) and hear cars and children that keep me awake at night. But I also hear Spanish. Lots and lots of Spanish. It's the language of my mother's parents that has always intrigued me so. This is my dream that I'm supposedly living, right here and right now. I'm living abroad. I'm an expat. I have arrived at one of the many places on my list.
But it doesn't automatically invoke a sense of fulfillment. What's actually out there, beyond the street I see from my window? Is there anything or anyone waiting for me? I've got to get it. Or I could just exist, become one with the crowd and sink into the masses with mundane sobriety. I could walk the streets, look up at the buildings, and never find the woman who truly owns the face I wear. I am a fraud, an imposter. And not even a good one -- as soon as I open my mouth, I am undone. All my ugly, crumbling infrastructure becomes truth and the world returns to its more important business. I resign to time.
It flies faster than the speeding Vespas and the more I think about it, the more I mourn what I know I'll have lost in the future. By then maybe I'll have met her, the woman to whom this face belongs. But maybe her body won't be worn out and tired and she'll no longer want the face because it still won't match. It never will. So I'll always be carrying what I don't own. I'll have to either learn to forget her or try to do her justice. Who knows what that looks like.
Ed is also a problem and he's everywhere. The Beautiful Woman is too strong to care but another part is weakening... It'll all be okay, though. It always is, in the end. God has a funny way of taking care of me when I least expect it.
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