I am a writer, by nature. I can find items in my childhood room where I had written “to-be” lists (my favorite kind…you know, the things I want “to be” to be “better”) when I was 13 years old.
fyi, I still have not fulfilled that list.
The writer’s soul is hard to describe and trust me, even harder to live with. And now, in this time of joy and anticipation in the month of December, this writer’s soul is dark and twisty. And this writer’s brain is overloaded with the same train of thought, the same circles, the same, same, same.
There is a conversation I have been planning in my head, a change I need to make. I made the decision for this awhile ago, but it is becoming a reality. And as the day I had planned to have this conversation draws closer, my eye is twitching – my stomach hurts – I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I am falling from my own graces, and I need to catch myself.
I can not go into a conversation without a plan, or at least a dream, of how it should go. I know realistically, it will never go the way I planned. I know also, realistically, it is not the end of the world. But it is the end of a way of being.
And I know I’m fine, and I will be fine. I know, I know.
“You, yourself, as much as anybody else in the universe, deserve your love and affection.”