Somehow, my weary just ironed itself out. I thought I had been paying attention, but I was obscured by a blanket of insecurity. Instead of living, I was alive.
Life.
Grinding my teeth, tossing and turning, wake n' bake, drink at night and bulldoze delusions of the future I never asked for when I try to forget I am an artist. This is not how I am. I used to think of life as a stage, then I saw the play I was putting on. It was embarrassing, so I started to think of life as an ocean. Salty and deep.
Worry has always been a crutch of distraction. Seemingly similar to my emotions when encountering a person at a stoplight holding a cardboard sign, I look in the eyes of my review mirror. I'd prefer to look back on my mistakes rather than anticipate my future mishaps. I do anyway, really I will.
When I am beach combing, I always double back to make sure I didn't miss anything, you know, shells copping a coif over some smooth rock. When I find a treasure I missed, I toss the first one back into the water with a usual, "THUD" in the lapping waves for luck. I figure that as long as you don't rely upon wishes, wishes rely on you.
I missed a wish by a minute more than once.
I touched my palms to my face and let my fingertips graze over my eyelids. Wiping the sand out. My hands over the grating stubble and through my short hair, my soft earlobes splitting my fingers. I recognized my touch, but it was a surprise to me because it felt like an old photograph I forgot.
Myself.
Overheard,.
Her: "Self realization isn't such an uncommon phenomena. In fact, most folks feel it every single day."
Him: " I couldn't believe it either, but statistics don't lie."
Smooth stones to wishing well.
Obsession broods worry weary and the shunned optimist may fold over into a crumpled regress. If this happens, beach comb a smooth rock and put it in your pocket. Rub the rock often for luck. Amass a realization of the world. Leave footprints in the sand. Throw rock in ocean and wish to live.
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