I spend a lot of time reading my own blog entries because I feel like my life is going by in a blur and I can't remember half of what's happening in my life, most of the time.
I've realized that this blog has become an amalgum of movies, decorating the house, and that's about it.
THAT'S NOT WHAT THIS BLOG IS MEANT TO BE.
So, today, I am going to write on the topic of
Self.
Self. I feel, sometimes, like I had a better sense of self in high school than I do now. Or maybe it was my lack of self...and the longing for it/slow discovering of it, that made life so fascinating and full of magic. All I know, is that I felt like life
sparkled. Music set my soul on fire. Gas was cheap, and my two closest friends and I would drive around endlessly with the windows down, screaming to songs that we felt perfectly described us. I would come home at 2 or 3am and write feverishly in my journals and make collages and write sappy poems and I offered every part of myself out to the world to make what they liked of it. I felt unafraid, held back by nothing. I had no fears of standing on stage or talking to strangers, turning aquaintances into friends and friends into enemies and back again. I talked too much, laughed too loudly, and loved myself deeply. I was certain I was made for something great.
Now I find myself on the other side of the spectrum. I lead a quiet life and I treasure solitude, often finding myself shrinking back in social situations. Is this the self I was supposed to grow up to be, or is this another step down the long, long road that leads to who I really am? Life is a confusing thing, full of disappointments. People are most often not who you believe them to be. We hold each other to great expectations and will most likely be let down.
I am not a total pessimist, however. I keep finding little bits of magic in life, but they are so few and far between. I just finished a great book called
Gossip of the Starlings:
I don't have the book with me, so I can't quote it, but there is a discussion between two characters of the Shel Silverstein poem from which the novel is titled.
"Forgotten Language"
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
This poem captures the inevitable loss of the magic we all have in childhood. I often feel like that magic peaked at 17 and has gone downhill ever since.
I have this feeling, which may be nuts, that finding that magic again is completely linked to reuniting with my sense of self.
So how do I find it?
