I have to start sometime, and now is as good as anytime. I have to start somewhere, and here is as good as anywhere. I have what I need; it's up to me now.
Maybe I’ll let some others in, though; let them help. Some I’m close to. If they want to; they might not and that’s fine cause I don’t mind being alone. I’ll think about it though; it would relieve some of the pressure building inside.
Besides, it’s not even fair to them to hide so much, is it? And why do people even keep secrets? We are all human, and not a single one of us is completely unique in whatever secrets we may have that are considered “shameful”. If everyone spoke up, if everyone removed the masks and let their true faces show…yes, they might lose some people; people that weren’t meant to be with them anyway. People who weren’t really compatible. They might gain some people too, though, and the people they keep and the people they gain would be the ones who really understand their particular secrets, and so everyone—after a sift and exchange of friends--would end up being surrounded only by people who really care and really understand. It might be painful at first, but afterwards they’d be left with only the best of the best for them. Life and relationships at their fullest; undiluted.
And isn’t that what everyone really wants, anyway? To be understood? Or at least for those they care about to try to understand them? That’s what I want, anyway. Oh yes, there’s a part of me that wants to remain a mystery; that wants to stay sectioned off and private for me and God alone. I think everyone has that desire. But that’s the beauty of separate souls. We can have it both ways. Because, no matter how much you tell someone about yourself, they will never really know you, because they are not you. You can confide anything and everything to those you care about—those you really want to understand you—and they will understand you enough to be close, but not enough that you lose your sacred self--the depth of self that only you and God can know.
We can be close to others. Our souls can brush up against one another, sharing the warmth, but no matter how close together they press, our mysteries are still intact because no soul can be inside another.
So maybe I will tell it all. Pour it all out and see whom the flood drowns and who can keep their head above the torrent. Well, no. I know I’m not brave enough to do that. I’ll keep some of it back. But I think I’ll start a trickle—maybe even a steady little stream—and let the chips fall where they may. I think I’m ready for that. I think I’m ready to say, “Here’s me. Here are my strengths, here are my weaknesses. Here’s my beauty, here are my flaws. Here are my fears, here’s how I’m brave. Here are my wants, here’s what I don’t want. Here’s what I like about myself, here’s what I’d like to change. Here’s what is really strange about me, and here’s how I’m like everybody else. Here I am, for better or worse, for however God has worked it into His plan. Here I am, for you to take or leave.”
But, you know, maybe I’m giving this too much thought. What to say, what not to say, is my perspective skewed in comparison to everyone else’s…
My mom gave me this pen once, and on the side it said “Just Be”. That’s what I want to do. Forget all of these technicalities and Just Be. Because, if I acknowledge Him—not man—in all my ways, He will direct my paths. If I Just Be, with my eyes on Him, He will guide and take care of me. Painful things will still happen, of course. That’s life. But I honestly believe that He is such a strong presence in my life that I will not fall apart. Things will be ok, no matter what happens; time will pass and He will work them out and they will be ok. Better than ok.
Today, I believe that fully and I’m not afraid of pain. I know that I won’t always feel this way, that I will doubt and fear again sometime, but this—this trust and peace I feel right now—is the backbone of my soul, I think. It’s why I have never quite given up during anything that’s happened in my life. As desperate as I’ve been sometimes—and doubtless will be again at some point—I’ve always had this faith. It may have been buried deep, but it was there. Faith that “this, too, shall pass”, and eventually I will have the future I hope for.
I want to take a vow of silence. It would be so lovely, I think, not to have to scramble for words…not to have to support them with a steady stream of air, stiffening and relaxing the diaphragm. Talking takes a lot more energy than people think.
It’s not as if it isn’t worth it sometimes. It can be. It can be worth it when I’m talking to people who are close to me. People whom I want to know more, whom I want to want to know me more. Then I dig for words in my head with enthusiasm. The air and the muscles move easily and even when I start to get tired there’s still more I want to say; more I want to ask.
But a vow of silence still sounds beautiful to me, because talking isn’t really necessary, even with those people I want to talk to. No, words don’t always need to fill the air, fill the space between us. A gaze can do as much, or a touch, a smile or just the way they move. The way I move. The way we both move together. The places we go, what we look at, the clothes we choose when the sky is gray. All of that says more than a mouth ever could.
Most people don’t think of that. They think dialogue is everything; that dialogue is where most of the communication takes place. Consistent silence frightens them. Frightens or offends; attracts strange looks and whispers behind the silent one’s back. But if they stopped to think—if they really stopped and opened their minds—they would see how intricate silence can be. When you know that words don’t need to be said…there is such freedom in that. If words were replaced completely by actions and looks and movements, I think we would realize how much we overuse them. Words, I mean. We overuse them and they lose their meaning, but they are the majority of what we focus on anyway. If we set them aside, if we sanctified them again by putting them to rest for awhile, I think we would find more meaning in each other. In ourselves. In the rest of the world. Then, when we dusted the words off and began using them again—respectfully, sparingly—we would re-discover the meaning they were meant to have. Their potency would be refreshed and they would be pungent to our souls once more, and think of the new depth of feeling that would come after the calluses in our ears have become tender again.
It isn’t practical, though. For me to be silent, that is. It is socially unacceptable, and the rules of social skills have been so set into people’s minds that it would be just too much for them. Too much of a change. They’d tell me to speak; they’d make me speak. Life would have to stop, just because my words stopped.
It shouldn’t be that way. It doesn’t have to be that way. It doesn’t have to be so many ways, but it is and I can’t change it cause I’m just one person too young to be listened to and no one thinks the way I do so what’s the point anyway? Even I lose track of what I really think and how to say it, so I don’t have much hope of convincing others to see things my way.
I kind of do like feeling a bit isolated in my thought processes, though. It makes me feel unique, when I say something that requires an explanation that I can hardly give. Though sometimes I do wish there was someone who thought just like me. Someone to whom I could say, “the itch in my heart keeps me awake at night” and they would know exactly what I meant. Or at least someone who wants to understand me enough that they would try to understand if they didn't; someone who was intrigued by the way my mind works, as unconventional as it may be.
I can write it on paper, though, and that’s almost as good. That almost satisfies the need for understanding. But not quite, for a couple of reasons.
First of all, it’s just paper. White paper staring back at me from black pupils of ink. No deep chocolate brown surrounding the words; no gray-blue textured like moonlight on rippling waves. Just my red-and-green to gaze at what I’ve written; the words I’ve forced from my fingertips that I may escape their threat of inner chaos.
I don’t remember the other reason…it’s late and I’ve been tired and forgetting so many things. It’s hard to remember these things at night, when I actually have the time to write them. It’s hard to have to sleep through the night; to stop what I’m doing because my body needs rest. I miss the night. It used to be my time; my element. In old journals I wrote that I was nocturnal—a creature of the night. I didn’t seem to need sleep back then. I’d be awake all night reading books and books and books and I’d write pages and pages by flashlight on the porch or barefoot in the cool grass or play my guitar softly to the stars parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme… then in the morning I’d be ready to begin another day. It was as if I lived twice as much as others in the same amount of time. Or maybe they were awake. They probably were, but I liked feeling as if I sneaked another day in that was only mine. A day of ethereal darkness and stars and moonlight when romance seeped from the walls to fill my head with dreams…dreams untainted by having been lived.
But now the Sun is my hourglass, and immune imbalances chain me like a slave to the garish light of Day. I break from her every now and then, risking conflict to tryst with the Moon. I pay though, when Day returns. More heaviness in my limbs and shaking and stiff and she makes her light so harsh and my head is dizzy and aching…but usually it is worth it. I submit to the consequences of my non-compliance and accept them as what must be; the price I must pay for the inspiration of Night’s shadowy kiss.
I wish I could see myself clearly. See myself like other people see me. Or, that someone who was brave enough—or hated me enough—would tell me how I really am. How am I irritating? Am I arrogant? Am I self-centered? Everyone has those flaws that are invisible to them; I often wonder what mine are. I know the ones I can see—that I can be lazy and defensive and selfish. Then there are the ones I suspect but am unsure of—arrogance, shyness to the point of being rude, unrealistic expectations for my life. But what are the ones that I don’t notice at all? That make other people grind their teeth in irritation and frustration? I would like to know; I would like to fix them, if I can.
I don’t hold out much hope for flaw-fixing, though, even the flaws I know for sure are mine. I really should stop procrastinating and write that paper and study those lines and practice that song and stop stop stop wasting my time in daydreams. I know I should but it’s just so tempting, the retreat in my head that I drop by there too many times throughout the day.