talking it out.
let’s pour our heart out, shall we? it certainly has been a while since I have. I didn’t know things would work out this way. I spent a long time not knowing. I wish I could say that I learned something from it: how to deal with uncertainty, how to be, in fact, in “uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact reason”. I’m not sure I did, but I am proud to say that I tried. I read a lot of poetry. I memorized passages from particularly beautiful essays with suitable titles such as “on fear”. I read “letters to a young poet” and cried and wished everybody would cry just as hard. I don’t know. maybe that is a way of being in uncertainties, a way of learning. and now it’s over. I have a job that I really like with people that I actually like and a routine I’m starting to be perfectly okay with. I realize how petty it might sound. how unreal my past fear when compared to what other people must suffer and endure. I feel, though, as though I grazed something wild and brutal. I could see it. the possibility of failure that made others’ failure less foreign. let it be clearly stated that I am aware of my privilege. I am insanely privileged. I have an impossibly good family who will always protect me and I’ve had every chance. I guess sadness and despair are relative and determining the legitimacy of these feelings is another day’s discussion. anyway. I’m here. on the other side of a weird season with my sense of normalcy restored and a brand new set of questions. primarily: when should I run? when should I try to pursue Dreams instead of cherishing safety? is a life with less poetry truly a better life? and has anyone ever willed themselves out of being in love?