Ideas come from death

"The epithets of imbeciles have never bothered me..." - Rosa Bonheur (1822-1899)

After going through the first two seasons of Sex and the City within an embarrassing span of time, I find myself shamed. Over Gaga’s “cherry cherry boom boom”, my eyes glazed over the WordPress app – the very one that I thought was of no real use because I have given up.

Only a few moments before, I had made myself tear up over the reality that it was 5:30am, I was horny, and I was playing Cooking Mama to get my mind off being partnerless and lacking physical affection. This was the precise second I slunk into a daymare that I was on my death bed knowing that I was just days away from my nineteenth birthday and I was without goals or aspirations. The pipedreams of being a sex-maniac TV producer doesn’t really count. I remember the last serious aspiration I had and barely fought for; writing.

On several occasions, I called it a ‘losing interest’. I at times convinced myself that it could just be a sabbatical. Yes, a sabbatical from my dream. What can I say? Confusion serves as logical justifications for even the most laughable of notions.

Though as I lost interest in the world around me, I fell for things that were foreign. Edith Piaf was one of them. I no longer faced the politics, the journalism, the issues, and everything inbetween and I slithered off into the dry brush on my belly. The stilts were off. I was no longer in my unnecessary high place where I wanted to be part of the circus with freaks. Little did I know that I was okay at regular height. I didn’t know to use my legs and accept that everyone just is. I didn’t know how to be me; real – not grounded. Grounded was the nonchalant belly phase of indifference. This was when I looked at the roots around me, that which makes me the social (and sometimes the contraire) creature.

Roots did it for me. Coming to terms with your family and life situation deaccelerates, even stalls, the present as you stare into the reflection of your eyes and into the past. Sometimes I think life is a jigsaw puzzle. You can’t keep jamming pieces together trying to get what you want out of it. Take a break and come back to it for another fresh start. Sometimes it’s necessary to settle down with what you have and appreciate the picture so far. It only gets better, does it not?

I realize now that the entire time that I blamed myself for stagnation and patheticness, I had really been overcoming and growing. I was not growing up but growing into me.

And thus after every rocky road, comes a treat like moose tracks. You get through the vanilla icecream, digging through differet facets of you life. This leads to the contemplation of the goodies you’ve scooped (or really earned) on your journey. With each chocolate piece you come across, you cuddle up to the fact that you made it and have one more experience to add to the memory banks. And with a bite, the peanut butter is relish. Tangy or sweet. It plays a string nevertheless.

Writing does this for me.