I am in a curious place. My words have a life of their own. They are reflexive. I spit them out one day, and they spring back at me with a quickness the next. I find myself questioning random theories, rethinking choices and trying to live up to pronounced principles. How is this so? I feel like I’m painting myself into a corner. Who is this unbelievably moral, sane being? Where is the anger…the hurt? It was there yesterday; why not today? And why are the good, unscrubbed arguments always behind closed doors? If the cursing can be heard through thin walls, why not bring it out into the front yard with all the laundry, clean and dirty.
This time, the song in the front yard will not be a sweet, little ditty. It will be a loud, raucous rant. But it will also be a release. Truth, no matter how late, is always sweeter and more fulfilling than deception. The most delectable of chocolates would not hold up in comparison.
I am in a direct state of mind. My words have whiskers, as well as stingers. I love the toned strength of my voice and my character at 35 years. There is nothing that you can say that will halt my forward stride. I am making moves; and if I go in reverse, I’ll just call it reflection. I have the right to do so. I have reclaimed my life, and in doing so, I take control of all that comes with it, the good and the bad.
This time the song in the front yard is about me. It’s personal. If you listen closely, you will hear the voice of a girl and a woman interchangeably. They speak to each other in whispers. Does the world overhear this private exchange? I don’t mind the onlookers, judges, haters or wannabes. It’s okay to stare. Completely. When I finally emerge from this cocoon of depression, will I be utterly beautiful in mind, body and spirit? All of that, and sanity, too? Am I hoping for too much or not enough? I’m not sure, but I will suck all the air out of this existence until I figure it out.
My song – unabashed, untamed; yet worthy.