“I feel insignificant, lost, but exultant.”
- Virginia Woolf
Ugh… same, minus the last word. My world is SMALL. I’m cocooned. I made my world this way. I know that I matter. Can’t deny that. But tonight I feel unseen. The smallest ripple out of all.
I work hard and have a couple of friends. I love a reasonable number of people. Not to mention the cat that is curled up in my lap. Is it enough? Sure doesn’t feel that way at times. I don’t feel appreciated for my words, my heart, intellect... or at least not ENOUGH, but perhaps that is selfish?!
My interests are deep and obscure. I’m fixated on a of sick and unnecessarily dead writers/artists. They didn’t live, but they “got it” in the way I am starting to. We all sink into the same stuff as writers. They couldn’t live with both that knowing and not knowing. Daily life isn’t enough. So many people are out there avoiding the mysteries of life (myself included at times) - but I’m trying to solve it to the extent that I can survive it. I need to know things. I like to think. I like puzzles. I crave connection but I’m operating on a different wavelength than many.
I need to add a tribe to my world. I’m always afraid of other people bleeding in to me too much though, or vice versa. And lest we forget how sick and dangerous many are. How can you ever know another person‘s heart? You can’t. I can’t. I’m not sure I’d even want to. I want the things I fear most - an anchor. Safe spaces. I fear them only because I‘m wary of the mirages. People act like love is some strong purely benevolent force, but it can die. Burn out. Even kill. What we do to have it, what we do when we are afraid of LOSING it. The highs. The things those highs take away.
So many questions. How can anyone live without thinking about these things? All the same, I must love as purely and selectively as I can.
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