My Google Docs file looks a bit like my brain: an unwieldy mess of words and half thoughts that are crammed into digital airspace nobody is bothered by but me.
It truly is killing me slowly.
I’m writing a novel, and I no longer want to be writing this novel. I love the idea, the premise of it. But I’d much rather a better novel writer actually do the writing and maybe I could make the cover and tell them how nice they look in that sweater.
See, now that’s a job I’d love to have. Except that’s not a job at all, and I think that’s the basis of my reality: I can’t put hands on who I am and how I’m supposed to be. I just feel…here.
And I’m grateful for the “here.” I know a ton of people don’t get to exist within it anymore. But I often hear a clock ticking somewhere within the whirl of words and half thoughts, and it brings me back to where I’ve always been.
Part of me is sad for the old me. Yesterday, I found an old passport photo. I was young and cute and had the clearest skin, and I get why now everyone always said how pretty I was. I don’t look like that anymore. Time and stress and hormones have done a real number. But I’m not as depressed about it as I probably should be. I see through that veil of fleshly desires, the vanity that stealthily slithers towards me, but look now at the ax in my hand.
There’s a lot more to ponder in this life than a clear complexion.
A friend of mine talks about writing down all the negative thoughts and then crumpling up the paper. Sometimes, I think of how many trees I’d lay to waste.
In the end, whether it’s my own cluttered mind seeking to devour me or somebody playing puppet to the devil himself, I remember something, a bit of red on my periphereal.
How God wrote my heart before it even thought to beat. And how that all came to pass without me even thinking about it.