The other night I dug through the plastic bin that holds the past 30 years of my life. Papers mostly. Things I deemed important at one point or another, most of it trash – but still stuff that for whatever reason I don’t want to throw out just yet. Among the pencil marked papers, and coloring contests won sit my notebooks. 22 to be exact. The earliest entry dates back to when I was 6 years old. The past bit of my life, written out before me. Not making sense to anyone around me, but reading through my words I am taken back to a time in my life – an exact moment when I scribbled out the words before me.
I cant remember what we had for dinner last night, don’t remember if I changed the laundry, and couldn’t tell you the last time both boys were in bed before ten. But when I read back over those words, I am taken back to that very moment. I might not remember what I was writing about, and probably couldn’t tell you what I was on about ½ the time – but the moment is there.
And yet, so often I feel like canning it all.
Tossing all those books away, deleting my words here and moving on.
So often words are used to hurt others. So often my own words work against me. So often I want to use the words to hurt someone. So often…
Its hard to explain things with words. Its hard to explain in a short blurb just what is going on, without stepping on toes somewhere, somehow. And yet they keep coming. Words keep coming together, forming sentences, telling stories, leaving foot prints.
Lately, I am a bit stuck. Words wont come. Thoughts cant be formed. It just is. And as hard as I try, I just cannot get things out the way I want. How can I say that life sucks at the same time it is awesome? How can I say that while I am happy, I am sad? How can I say that this is good, yet it is so bad. How can I say that this is the easiest life has been in a long while – and yet it is so damn hard?
How can I complain – when I have nothing to complain about when I compare my life to others?
It’s a constant battle, the battle of words. Within myself.
I write. For myself. I write. For me. I write. So when I look back, I remember this moment. Sitting in a chair, stuck for words. I write, because I don’t want to remember. But I need to remember. That this moment, no matter how HARD, was still good. I write. Because I will NEED to know, that it does get better. And it has gotten better. And it is a good life, it just gets a little bumpy at times. And I need my words to reassure me, that in time. In good time. It will be ok. Because time after time, this has been proven to me.
Somewhere, deep within my meaningless words, I tell myself what I need to hear: It will be ok. It will be ok. It will be ok. And somehow. I have to believe that, because I have no one else who will actually believe the lie long enough to convince me. Somehow, we will be ok. Somewhere, deep within the hidden lines of the paper the words are there.
It will be ok.