Honestly.

Recently, I had an epiphany. Or at least I had what felt like an epiphany, it probably was the result of some locked up brain wave that got loosened while I bashed my head against the wall. But nonetheless, I feel it’s worthy of categorizing and grouping along with the existential moments I’ve had while tripping on acid or blowing marijuana smoke rings into the air. Just kidding mom, they only did that in the 60’s, right?

I love connecting and catching up with close friends. You know, the ones that really love you. The ones that you really love and that you feel you can bare your bones to without them telling you your clavicles are getting fat. Or maybe, if you need to hear it, that they really are fat clavicles. Which I feel like is just borderline BAD. In one of these recent friend-catchings-up, my very good, dear friend writes me a single line, “Emma, the cage door opens from the inside.  Open it and step out.  And then sing like the birds sing.”

I realized that for years now, I have been a pretty little liar. By this I mean. I am not the person I want to believe that I am. Or that I am. I speed, I run red lights from time to time, I sometimes roll my eyes when someone asks me to do something, I don’t like babies as much as I should, and puppies are cute, but I would rather read a book or dance in front of my mirror than pet a puppy. Any day.

Despite the deep, dark, dusty facts that comprise me as a person. I would never tell a pregnant woman that I think she should be eating healthier, for the sake of her baby, I don’t tell the truth when someone asks me my favorites or dislikes, I don’t even tell my best friend what I truly theorize about life.

I remember being a kid and lying about various things in order to get my way, composing my excuses and defenses cleverly and coyly. Working as a 5-year old defensive lawyer without a law degree. Making sure the criminal never went to jail. And then sleeping guiltily in my comfortable queen size bed when I should be in the too-small bunk I earned for my wrongdoings.

However, by doing so, I sent myself to prison. I locked myself into a jail of being someone I was not happy with. I went to bed hungry with thoughts of the rotten cabbage soups I was eating, all the while pretending to be free and full. 

The phrase “Fruits of My Labor” popped into my head the other day. And then a question of repercussion. Do I deserve such fruits? I must make sure I do. And that the fruits are fresh and not rotten.

Be an honest worker. Be honest and true and authentic to who you are.

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If I Write Right Now…

If I write right now, it’s likely to be, some unsurprisingly ,unusually, unnecessary commiserational piece.

No, commiserational is not a word, but I have grown tired of simply commiserating and long for something more. Now I must craft and invent words to describe the feeling. The feeling of wet, soaking rain, dampening even more your sneakers with clean socks. With the cuffs of your pants sagging around your ankles from trudging through puddles. When you know you should have stayed home. All because you forgot your umbrella. And woke up five minutes late. 

I wish my words could devise something that will actually change the way things are. I’ve tried dreaming, putting myself into the shoes of “future me”. Being positive. Smiling at myself in the mirror in the morning. Self-hypnosis at night. The law of attraction has attracted the most amazing thing to me, but my prayers have bogged me down with things I did not mean to wish for. And at the same time, they are contradicting each other, simultaneously.

I have so much to be deeply thankful for. But still, every day is a fight for my life. A fight to stay above my own dark mind and cynical feelings. Where I once had direction, I now am lost. My GPS is broken and I don’t even trust the one I always used to have to fix it anymore.

I only have one thing. And that one thing is plenty for me. But I wish everything else would stop existing. So I could just dance away my days with the one thing, and forget the rest.

The rest do not love me. Like you do.

Can I tell you a million things? A million broken pieces? A million tales? Will you listen?

This is what happens if I were to write right now. Thank goodness I can’t write. I can’t think. I can’t dream. I can’t cry, can’t laugh. My face is a deafening monotone. Like every day. As it passes.

“What’s that you said? You would like another coffee? Coconut milk?  No problem, sir, “Order in!”