I just got angry reading a message in my inbox. Some people are so inappropriate and presumptuous and SO RUDE it’s like, how can you even go to sleep feeling good about yourself?
We meet ourselves time and again in a thousand disguises on the path of life.
Oh babe, I am so anxious. No matter how deeply or how often I sigh, the feeling does not go away. I am trying. I know my body cannot tell the difference between excitement and fear. It never could. Both make my head go all swimmy and my vision blur around the edges, filtering sounds through cotton, leaving my dry tongue to cling only to the roof of my mouth, when words suit me so much better.
But I stutter and I shake lately. It’s so unlike me, except that I guess that it isn’t. I am constantly impressed and bewildered by you. I am also horrified to be around you, for fear that you might notice I am far less impressive and bewildering. And why bother? Except that I can be wonderful, or so I am told.
But if everything is a drag, I am no exception and it feels to me like everything kind of is. A drag, I mean.
But it’s not sad or anything. It just is as an inevitability of existence. The adventures we have now just have a little less heart in them. Falling down hurts worse as you get older. Alcohol is more potent and less fun. You emotionally invest in tv characters or something equally sad (I have a few, but of what is still on the air, we’ll say my big ones are SOA, Criminal Minds). Your family becomes your closest friends instead of the last ten years when your closest friends became your family.
Still, there is nervousness and excitement and the hope for adventure and magic and relative ease in remembering the exhilaration of youth and the feeling of freedom. We could.