I do not know how to make my life work.

I officially have way too much to do and not enough time to do it. No, it's not exams week or mid-terms. I don't have any out-of-the-ordinary expectations on my time.

This is just life, and I don't know how to make it work. Too much to learn- too much to see and hear and speak. Too many friendships to grow and maintain and love. I love everything that I'm doing, but feel unable to devote enough to anything. I want to be totally committed to so many things and people and projects.

Can I give up sleep for the month of February?

Recently Read: One Big Happy Family, Searching for Mary Poppins, and The Somnambulist

Pretentious

I was feeling rather down for most of today. Feeling out of sorts or down usually prompts me to examine my gut and figure out what's causing the problem. Today was no different and thus I spent a good majority of my solitary driving time lost in thought. I seemed to be no closer to understanding my sadness (though a great deal sadder for all the trying) when a very clear thought cut through the noise:

I want to be

• The sort of person who has an endless supply of patience-
• The sort who can simply listen and validate others without needing to press her own worth-
• The sort who sees the inherent and genuine good in all she meets-
• The sort who knows intrinsically that she is a thing of value, and thus doesn't have to constantly seek validation or value from her surroundings. . .

In short, I want to be super-human.

I am continually frustrated by my shortcomings. I know the argument that one's shortcomings provide the lessons for one's journey. I even believe that argument, but that doesn't mean it's fun to live through the times of utter humanity. Well, at least not always.

I get so tired of growing. I find myself longing for things, for status, for roles, and for people that I somehow believe will fulfill me. I self-righteously proclaim that I know things cannot fill me or make me feel whole. I know. I've heard about the AA god-shaped hole. I'm not 'simple-minded' enough to believe that getting the job, car, house, etc. will make me happy or finally put me at the level where I can sit back and relax til check-out time.

No, not me. I know that that stuff is all empty if you don't have awareness or actualization or whatever other big word I choose for the day.

I clearly know everything, so how is it that I find myself longing for the day when my career will be launched- with the direct expectation that such a day will surely bring with it a sense of total completion in that arena of my life? I find myself thinking of an imaginary future significant other who will not complete me (that would be silly!) but will give me a sense of arrival and I won't feel lost ever again?? Because that's totally different from being completed by a partner, right?

I find myself thinking that the things and people I long for will push me into the next stratosphere, where I will no longer feel down at times and where I will not have to work so hard at hiding my humanness. And in the same thought I look down my nose at others who believe that someday a partner will make them feel whole.

I smell hypocrisy. . .

The funny thing is, I go through a lot of extra hoops trying to avoid thinking that I'm better than others. I spend a lot of time looking for how I am related to others- our commonalities, our shared trials. I abhor the idea of thinking oneself better than others. . . and yet I do it all the time.

I see someone sneer at a homeless person as ze passes by, and I stiffen my neck a bit. I watch lovers quarrel over something petty and my eyebrows shift slightly while the corners of my mouth raise the tiniest bit. A hundred times every day I make split second comparisons between myself and the people around me, and when I decide that I come out ahead, I feel pleased.

Once upon a time I based these comparisons on things like how one dressed or who one's friends were or what books one read (ok, I still do this sometimes), but basically I compared your external status frills with mine. This is not how I think so much today- which is probably why I'm so darned self-righteous. See? See Me? I don't judge whether I'm better based on socioeconomic level! Or style! Or culture!! HaHAH! I have graduated beyond such pettiness and have moved on. . . to the same pettiness re-packaged based on where you are on your personal journey.

Instead of judging your clothing or what you scored on the last test, I've moved on. How grateful are you? Really?? How much do you take your anger out on others? Are you more honest than me? Damn!

And this is better somehow? *sighs*

Why am I so obsessed with the idea of better? The concept of 'better' by definition requires a comparison, which just leads to trouble if you're trying to be at peace on your journey. I acknowledge that sometimes comparison can be a truly helpful thing -it can be a powerful motivator- but the flip-side of that coin is the possibility of obsessively looking to others to gauge whether or not one can be happy, and that is a foolish method of trying to attain any sort of meaningful or lasting joy.

I guess this is really just me trying to hold myself accountable. I'm putting it out there that I know, deep down, that I'm not actually holier than anybody. I also realize that I am my own harshest critic, despite all my countless pep talks and lectures about being gentle with the self.

I just have to continue to remind myself: It's ok that I'm not a super human. Though I wouldn't mind being able to fly. . .

Currently Reading: Bird By Bird

Loving Oneself When Things are Good and One's Brain is Bad

It's shocking how difficult it is to stay positive when things are going well.

Shocking and annoying.

Life has been full of unexpected joy and brilliance lately. My first semester back at school (4th attempt at college) went incredibly well, especially considering the health setbacks. Coming back to New York after my visit to Michigan for Christmas, I was surprised by a multitude of warm feelings for this city- it felt good to be home after being gone for a week. This Thursday I start my first professional gig as a singer in this, the city at the center of the performing arts world. While working last Thursday, my boss casually asked me if I would mind taking a week off school at the end of the month to accompany her on her vacation to the Bahamas.

There's more. Friday I was living in the tiniest excuse for an apartment with a dog and her man who smokes and has loud sex, and the next day I was moving into a palace. I'm almost not exaggerating, either. My new room is more than two times the size of my old room, with a (small) walk-in closet and personal vanity nook with sink and mirror. It came with a bed (a real one, no air mattress any more!), a dresser, a desk. . . I could use another bookshelf, but only because I have too many books. The apartment also comes with a guest room, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and a professional cleaner every two weeks. I'm only paying $60 more per month. Did I mention it's the same distance to school? It's a quicker commute, though, as the bus stop is barely outside my door. Health Nuts, my favorite health food store, is right across the street, too.

It's Sunday and I have been full of such excitement for the past three days. I've carted almost all my things via minivan the requisite few blocks, and I've unpacked and alphabetized my books. I am excited about today and tomorrow and the next day. I'm full of gratitude,

So Why Do I Feel So Damned Mopey???

I keep looking around, wondering when I'm going to screw it up. Today I've caught myself at least 3 times inwardly berating myself for being behind on homework. Of course, as it is Break, I have no homework. I conveniently remember this only after a sufficient moment of shame has taken precedence. It seems every quiet moment today finds me listlessly searching the ceiling for proof that I have done something for which I ought to be ashamed. This is infuriating.

I will say that I am pleased that it has taken this long for me to begin to search for the other shoe and its impending drop. Usually at the first sign of the possibility of goodness I am transformed into the Magical Harbinger of Pessimistic Boding. I haven't been skeptical of any of the good things in my life of late until today.

Ah, but can I focus on this little bit of goodness? Of Course Not. I must, it seems, zero in on the gaping fact that I have yet again failed at being a perfectly positive person. I eventually succumbed to the dark side of misgivings and shame-seeking. I am a failure.

Or so says that annoying recurrent voice in my head. Ugh. It's so obnoxious. At least it's not the only voice vying for attention in my skull. There's still a pretty loud voice yelling 'Bullshit' every time that sick masochistic voice cries failure.

Perhaps to spite the truth-telling voice that sick bastard piece of me doesn't stop with the failure line. I push onward with the self-deprecatory monologue (is it a dialogue? Can you have a dialogue with yourself if the conversation is hypothetical and only semi-conscious??) and I find every instance of petty conversation I've taken part of in the last week. I'm sad to say it's a lot more often than I'd like.

I think back on every time I interacted with someone new, someone I wanted to like me, and I see a caricature-esque version of the conversation in front of me. I hear the whiny, neediness of my words. I see the desperation in my anecdotal and self-absorbed discussion pieces. And I want to crawl further into my new comfy bed and hide.

It's not a debilitating sort of situation, and I'm mostly aware of the fact that my current replay of all those conversations is a bit distorted, but -frankly- it's annoying as hell to be spending this kind of energy rooting around in the recesses of my present experience trying to find things to be upset about.

WHY CAN'T I JUST ACCEPT GOOD FORTUNE WITH GRATITUDE??

End of story.

Finis.

Right? Apparently not. At least not for tonight.

My boss often says that the good thing about music as a career is, especially for me, that I will never be bored with it. I will never tire of trying to be better at it as one can never truly perfect the art of music. It's a double-edged sword.

The same is true of life, it seems, though I haven't seemed to truly accept this yet as I still endeavor to do things perfectly to some point. "Progress Not Perfection" should be drilled into the backs of my hands on days like this, because for the life of me, I can't seem to forgive myself.

You see, logically I accept that it's perfectly normal to have a day where one feels a bit down, or a bit skeptical about one's situation. One won't feel bursting with gratitude every single day. So you have a day that's a bit mopey! So What?!? It only becomes a real problem when one loses the ability to see that very large picture and instead gets held up on the individual day. Ahem.

I can't forgive myself for being mopey instead of grateful. Not today. The best I can do today is to get comfortable, make some tea, and watch a bit of whichever program I find most appealing, because sitting on my bed, contemplating my belly button and the state of my immense failures is incredibly unproductive.

And not helpful at all.

Currently Reading: I've been behind- finished 9/10 volumes of The Sandman, Water for Elephants, and something else which is slipping my mind. Currently working on Naked and volume I of the Diary of Anaïs Nin.

Short Story, Not Particularly Uplifting

His mother was in the next room, snoring away on the sofa. Every other moment a particularly potent gurgle would escape, wafting into his bedroom. He thought it sounded like a baboon lost in the throes of a powerful dream. He focused on the large bottle of beer at his feet. He had only just opened it, his third of the evening, and he was trying to decide if he should have left it in the fridge.

Another loud snarl from beyond the door to his room caused him to jump. He swore aloud with the usual, unimaginative words as he scrambled to pick up the bottle, trying to salvage as much of the remaining 20 or so ounces. He licked his fingers before grabbing an old towel. The beer wasn't tasty so much as it was chemically reactive. These days he needed every drop to make a proper escape.

He sopped up the mess as best he could, wiped his hands, and took another swig before sitting back on the edge of his bed. An unbelievably growl-like snore erupted next door, and he scowled at his door and its inability to block the sound, muffle the irritations of his mother's sleep, or protect the sanctity of his brooding. He turned his tv on in an effort to create his own soundtrack. Settling quickly on the mundane dregs of cable television, he dropped the remote and assumed the most comfortable position fo the contemplation of self-pity.

Knees wide apart, elbows propped firmly atop them, forehead cupped in both palms. . . he occasionally ran a single hand through his hair for good measure. He was absolutely serious about the bleakness of his situation. His phone sat a few feet away, near his pillow. He did not look at it.

He really had no choice in the matter. No choice other than which beer to swallow whole. What else was there? Perfectly on cue his phone lit up and buzzed. He lowered his head a bit more, as if attempting to smell his own neck. He swatted halfheartedly at a mystery fly buzzing between his head and his phone. The buzzing ended.

What choice did he have? Yes, it was true that he had agreed to call earlier. But, well, clearly that was impossible. He took a long draught off his bottle and paused. When he closed his eyes the feeling in his head was muted, a barely floating feeling. No, he would need more than beer tonight.

Come to think of it, he thought as he reached clumsily under his bed, he couldn't recall the last time beer had been enough. He pulled out a few empty bottles which he quickly discarded directly into a pile of old clothes. As his fingers grasped on of the bottles he sought, a couple of words whispered their way through his mind.

No, he unscrewed the cap of his rum, I don't have a drinking problem. He chuckled a bit. The only drinking problem I have is too many empty bottles and not enough full ones. He threw his head back and tossed down another dose of burning. It tasted slightly like old medicine.

Exactly what he needed: a little medicine for the soul. It must surely have been located near his pancreas, judging by his choice in cures. He chased with a sip of beer, which left a rather nasty taste in his mouth, almost like old vomit. The rum was quick, though, and he wouldn't be bothered by the taste in his mouth for long.

Why on earth did she want him to call? He knew they would talk about nothing. Some fanciful nothing that would degenerate into nerdy allusions, later into sexual overtones and lust in her voice. Why wouldn't he call her?

He simply couldn't. He was so tired of lying- of pretending to be good. Sooner or later she would see. He would falter, she would wake-up, but either way if he kept on, she would realize that he was. . .

Well, he knew that she was better. That she deserved better. And that she didn't want him, at least not the real him. He'd been careful to tuck that bit away. He felt full of agency, full of portent and power. He felt proud of his choice in the matter. It didn't occur to him that his powerful choice had been to do nothing, so he wasn't bothered by any silly notions of irony.

It did occur to him, however, that he hadn't heard a snore in a very long time. A dope-ish grin crept over his face, looking quite out of place amidst the general aura of brooding. He picked up his jacket and cigarettes and with the mistaken grace of a drunk he opened his door and attempted to creep outside. His mother didn't stir.

Thank God she's finally out, he thought as he filtered the air through his cigarette. He held his first drag in his lungs for a moment, felt the pressure as the smoke pushed against his chest and the nicotine smuggled itself into his blood stream. When he finally let go of the breath it was with a sense of relief- a cool release. Outside the cold air numbed his thoughts to a slow state- speed he could readily ignore. He looked at a tree instead, its branches, its few remaining leaves- lost, forlorn, but oddly right where they should be.

He smudged his cigarette out in the dirt, dropped the butt into an old coffee canister, and went back inside. His head was putting up a good fight against the swim of intoxication, and he smiled as he caught himself on the railing after missing the last step or two.

He looked at his mother, lying on the couch, mouth open. Still no more snores. He paused- no sounds at all. He picked up a blanket and went over to her, quietly as a drunken dog in a nursery. He piled the blanket atop his mother, pleased that she didn't stir after his gentle endeavor. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. She felt cold and he was glad to have been thoughtful enough to grab a blanket. With the further concern of a man on the verge of passing out, he stumbled back to his room and wedged his door shut.

The tv was still on. He lay down and rested his head. He reached behind his head to pull out his phone, which had been interrupting the smoothness of his pillow. His brow furrowed as he examined the phone with more directness than he had dared earlier. He briefly considered calling her, coming up with some excuse to explain the hour. . . ?

But he didn't want her to think him a drunk. His thoughts were becoming extremely muddled, and he opened the contacts directory on his phone. Seeking further intoxication, he scrolled to the N section, past 'Nadia', straight to an entry simply labeled 'No'. He pressed the glowing green button and listened as the phone rang in his ear.

The old voice answered, annoyance painted thickly. Even in his state, though, he could hear the underlying eagerness. She was terrible at hiding. He mumbled something indistinct, which she took for an invitation.

"I haven't heard from you in two months, and now you want me to come over?"

He mumbled something even less distinct.

"Well, give me 20 minutes."

And before he could reply she had hung up, which was just as well, as the only reply he was capable of anymore was a gentle snore.

Outlook

The other day I was talking with my boss while driving around Staten Island. As is our usual habit, we were deeply entrenched in the business of solving the problems of the world and the human heart (with lots of philosophizing thrown in for good measure) when a new-to-me way of thinking about the differences between people came up.

It seems to me that people fall into one of three groups. The first group is comprised of ungrounded dreamers. You know the sort- they go through life with the belief that everything is perfectly fine the way it is. It's not that they see the best in things so much as that they don't really see the things in front of them. They live in a dreamworld. This is really a rather small group, as it's pretty impractical to live everyday lost in thought, pondering what it would be like to fly south with the geese for winter.

The second group is full of people who live in today. Sure, today is a little miserable, it's kind of cold actually, but it's today. Tomorrow's not here, and hey- it's just going to be another version of this miserable day (which thus far is indistinguishable from yesterday), so why think about it too much? And when life throws rotten fruit at you, well, that's life. You keep doing what you've been doing. It's not as though things could be different. No one's ever truly happy, and besides, you didn't want to be happy anyways.

The third group is filled by those who dream of possibility. These people live in the world today, but they do not accept that this is the way life has to be. They imagine that their hopes could become realities, and then they make them happen. They interact pragmatically, but they are always considering that the life they think about while waiting for sleep could become their reality.

It's true that no one lives their entire life solely in one of these groups- we all dabble in all of these outlooks from time to time, but I think it's fair to say that most people spend the majority of their day-to-day lives in one of these modes of reality. I'm sure I've neglected some other group(s) in the process of creating three boxes for every individual to fit into, but my point is not to create a highly tuned system for filing people away. Rather, I think it's helpful to realize this particular difference in the ways that people approach their reality.

For example, I think I spend a lot of my time in the third group. I'm happy with my life for the most part (despite the volumes of complaints this blog is collecting) but I'm not content to sit back and passively live in the world. I want to affect change, both in my personal experience and in my community. I have dreams. I have hopes for what my life will be. And I find it incredibly frustrating to spend a lot of time with those content to live their life in the second group. To interact with people filled with potential, filled with dreams of far off happiness, but lacking the agency to begin any sort of journey towards those dreams. Content to be miserable. Wallowing in mediocrity.

Ok, perhaps that last bit was a bit harsh. I may have been thinking about individuals instead of pontificating about an entire group of people. . . (because one is so much better than the other. . . hmmm) but what I'm trying to get at is that it can be difficult to explain thoughts and actions to people who don't live in the same sort of reality. People who don't see the possibility of change, let alone believing in its possibility, have difficulty understanding why someone would spend hir energy trying to change things.

I'm not sure if I think this is fascinating or horrifying. It's pretty helpful when building new relationships to determine if the people involved share the same concept of reality. In my experience it's exhausting trying to convince someone else that ze not only has the right to dream or that hir dreams are possible, but that dreaming of the future is essential. Now that I think on it, I'm inclined to be more conscious of this when making new friends.

Just Desserts

Today I was going through a notebook from two months ago. I found the following:

I deserve to be more than a rebound. I deserve to be with someone who takes care of hirself. I deserve someone who wants to be sober for a good portion of hir life. I deserve someone who loves hirself. I deserve someone intelligent and optimistic. I deserve someone who generally thinks well of people. I deserve someone who wants me for me, not for my being hir not-ex. I deserve to be with someone who takes joy in the world. I deserve to be with someone who is a great dancer.

This sentiment seems particularly poignant lately. I have always settled on lovers who do not fit this description, and not just because of the dancing bit (which, by the way, refers to taking great joy in dancing and not actual skill). I have long felt as though I were starving for acceptance, such that I have attempted to sustain myself with partners who were neither compatible nor appropriate.

Trying to squeeze blood from a beet and all that.

The thing is, though, I haven't been starving for acceptance for a long time. I've had an amazing community for several years now- women and men who are there for me both when I need them and even when I don't. Almost a year ago I realized for the first time that not only do I like myself, but I think I'm pretty fantastic. Life is great, and I am terribly excited about the future.

So when I look back over this summer and fall, at choices I made and situations I encouraged, I find it difficult to understand my overtly self-destructive actions. If I like myself, if I'm not anemic from lack of love, then why would I allow such an unhealthy liaison to flourish? Why did I put myself in the midst of what I knew, even then, to be an ill-suited situation?

The reason is that I have never stopped to acknowledge that I'm not starving anymore. To continue with the food analogy: I remember once reading a dieting tip in a magazine suggesting that one eat more slowly, as it takes 20 minutes for your stomach to send the message to your brain indicating that you're full. There's a time delay and if you don't realize that you're full you'll continue to nom down on whatever's on your plate. . . maybe you'll even add more.

Which is not to say that I promote diets, but rather that there has been a serious time differential between walking about in the world with new-found self-esteem and self-respect and realizing this new state of being. I've been wandering about thinking I'm still empty when, in fact, I have all I need.

Which means I don't have to settle for shit.

. . .

I don't have to settle. I have the ability to think about what I deserve, not just what I need. I don't need a partner to make me feel special or loved or accepted. I deserve a partner who fits, and if a potential partner doesn't really fit, then I'm better off on my lonesome.

This is not marvelously easy to write, less easy to publish into the ether of the net, and far less easy to put into practice. However, I feel that it is true in the pit of my stomach, in that bit of viscera behind my belly button. I don't need a someone. I would like someone, but not just anyone will do. I deserve someone wonderful.

And I am willing to wait.

LackLuster Faith and Keeping On

I know it's been a while, but geez, what a month. Sometimes it feels like this horrid month will never be over (I mean, it only just passed the two week mark), but then I realize that after next week it's December, and I think:

Well, Fuck.

This month has been such a challenge thus far, which is a nice change from all the boring months I've been having lately. Really. I mean, life is beautiful and breath-taking and brilliant and all sorts of other fantastic b-words, but it is also just plain hard. It is so unbelievably hard sometimes that it makes my breath almost hurt, and let's face it, there aren't any nerves for sensing pain in breath- it's just air after all, so life must be REALLY hard to be giving my breath pain receptors.

I mean, whose idea was it for me to take an ice-pic to my heart and split it into bits for scattering across the country? It's as though I'm a bit of saint that's been distributed to different churches for safe-keeping. This whole tri-coastal thing (if we're counting West Michigan, "the Other West Coast", and how can this royal we not?) sucks. I don't think there's a better or more eloquent way of expressing how much I dislike being separated from people and places I love by this much space. It sucks.

Then there's the murkiness. I've had a residual sort of gross, murkity-murk clinging to the insides of my pockets and hanging about my scarf lately. I can't seem to shake it. I stop and I breathe and I think about all the things I'm grateful for (which, by the way, is a whole helluva lot, like apple cider. . . I'm really grateful for apple cider) and I try to hold on to the feeling of gratitude, but the feeling never really takes hold in the first place.

I'm not depressed, I'm not downtrodden, and I'm not stuck in ennui, but sometimes I feel a little hopeless. Now I know right now you may be thinking all sorts of encouraging bits of advice. You may even already be pre-composing your comment for the bottom of this blog. Yes, that is what that giant white box at the bottom of this entry is for, so use it. It lets me know that someone reads this. Y'know, someone besides me and my teddy bear, who doesn't exactly count as I read it to hir, so it's not as though ze is a separate reader. At any rate, what I meant to say is that I'm not exactly looking for hope, or rather not from my faithful readers. I'm not completely devoid of hope, I just have been feeling a murkiness lately. This is not an attempt to trawl for pity or hallmark cards. I will ask for those more directly when they are called for (though if you'd like to send me a card feel free to do so at any time).

An example of what I'm trying to express:

I was walking home from school the other day. As I walked past one of the dingier deli/coffee shops in town I overheard a very loud exchange between two men. This particular shop always seems to have a small group of men hanging out outside, either smoking with the aura of AA break-time or chewing the fat between beers (pending on the time of day). Though this shop advertises coffee for fifty cents cheaper than my deli one block away, I have never even entertained the idea of going in to buy their coffee. So I'm walking by and this man starts yelling at this other guy. What he's saying doesn't seem to make a whole lot of sense. It goes something like, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you have to say so? I was gonna fix the wheels. I was gonna fix the God Damn Wheels. Why the fuck couldn't you wait?" Somehow it seemed like the second guy had asked about the wheels on his laundry cart.

But the particulars of the situation really are pointless, as it so often it seems they are. What matters is how the first man's voice sounded. He was So Angry. Anger tainted with deep shame. Like he was angry because something the other guy said touched deep down to some old sense of inadequacy or worthlessness. Like this guy complaining about his wheels being broken reminded the first guy of being a little kid and getting yelled at for not being enough or not finishing his chores on time. Getting yelled at and being terrified that forgetting to take the trash out meant he wasn't lovable anymore.

Maybe I'm reading too much into a passing conversation, and maybe I'm imagining things too much, but I almost started to cry as I continued down the street. Because, I thought, when will the hurt stop?

When will we have learned that we are enough? When will we believe it and teach our children that they, too, are enough? That they are lovable for being children. Sometimes I wish I could take every person in the world and hold them in my giant, grandmother lap and sing them a song and hold them so close and just love them. And they would know that they are enough. And they would quit yelling at their bus driver and their check-out clerk and their server. And they would hold their children close, too. Sometimes I fantasize about this, imagining what kind of room such things would take place in and how long a person would need to sit and be loved to actually believe it. I imagine it in depth, mostly because I want this so desperately for myself.

I want someone, some gigantic bunny-rabbit great-aunt or something (I think it's a bunny rabbit because of a childrens book I read once), to swoop in and lift me out of the murkiness, to pick me up and cuddle me until I fall asleep knowing that I'm ok. That I'm more than ok, and that it's not because of something witty I said or which music I listen to or what social beliefs I hold dear, but because I am a child of God. A child of the Universe. Another beautiful, splendid conduit of truth.

I believe about 10% of this on good days, and this pittance of belief is slowly killing me. I also absolutely think this is what's basically wrong with the world. I think the root of all war and poverty and greed and hatred and violence is some gaping wound deep within us that compels us to go forth in the world with fear and shame and an everlasting ache. In saying this I'm probably being overly simplistic and incredibly self-absorbed, but I don't care. I think it's the truth.

And this just about breaks my heart some days. This is when the hopelessness subtly creeps in and sets up shop in the interior lining of my jacket. And I feel very tired and walking home seems like an endless endeavor.

But times like these, too, are times of faith. It's funny, because even when I am crying from lonesomeness or old wounds that seem never to dissipate, even when I feel hopeless, I feel certain that things are getting better. I walk down my street at 2 am and though I can't see the stars I can feel a stillness in the sky. I trust the chill on my nose as I breathe in and I know, I just know deep down that it's going to get better. Even though I don't see how. Even though I can't feel it. Even the the murkiness is enough to just about choke a girl.

The thing is, it doesn't choke me. I am still breathing, it is another day, and it is different today than it was yesterday. Somehow, it's all moving right along. It makes so little sense to cling to the belief that it won't always hurt this much or be this bad, but I cling anyways. It is a gift. And trust me, I'm grateful.

Currently Reading: (recently finished, finally) A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius now reading Operating Instructions