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?
