A lot of the past year has been for me an exercise in wandering. A sort of to-and-froing over who I would like to be, the things in my field of vision most worth pursuing, and how do I aim upwards, even at my lowest, least-proud moments. It doesn't always work. I lose myself more often than is good for me and find myself dipping into other people's stories. It's not entirely my fault. They're just so compelling, you know? The little proud ways in which you carry yourselves, the way your mouth curbs when you're telling a secret, the panoply of things you're embarrassed about when a new person's looking at you. Just the other day, I was on the bus, deep in my music and was startled by an old woman coming to stand beside me. And I jumped and so did she. Poor thing, she'd only asked me for directions, but by the time I'd taken out an earphone, she'd covered her mouth, embarrassed maybe by having to ask questions, or crooked teeth, or an errant fleck of spit.
People, man. The most fascinating things.
Anyway, a lot of indecision. I thought I should align myself towards more conservative goals, and proceeded to misery. Then I relapsed into chaos (almost, sort of toeing the line there), and that wasn't good either. I find it difficult, so I carve out pieces of myself like cake and present them to strangers and friends accordingly.
These are not exactly lies. They are ways of making myself palatable. I don't consider myself a rat, though there are moments I bite the inside of my own cheek and sign my name as coward.
It feels as if, in all these directions I've tried to take, none are ever fully embodied. Only fragments of who I've meant to be. Does that make sense? It does to me. How do I stay whole, present myself as whole, and not lose my head in the process?
"Most of the time now, we settle for half, and I like it better, but the truth is holy. And even as I know how wrong he was, and how useless his death, I tremble. For I confess something perversely pure calls to me from his memory. Not purely good, but himself purely. For he allowed himself to be wholly known. And for that, I think I will love him more than all my sensible clients. And yet, it is better to settle for half. It must be."
Arthur Miller, 'A View From the Bridge'
Except I've begun doubting that is how it is. Truly better. It seems to me wholly easier, rather than aiming towards one specific path, to set an intention that is neither left nor right, not black or white, because I'm caught too often in the sun and am neither. I think it would be a whole lot easier, fitting in solely with one crowd or the other. Sitting either with them or us. But I find myself sitting often in the middle, alone, so rather than seek goals for myself that fit in one (or the other) side, I'll aim for this.
To be wholly purely myself. Neither here nor there. Confused and wandering from your side to the enemy's while carrying in my coat pocket this eternal carte blanche. At least to my own eyes. It might, to yours, get me shot in the end.
But like Eddie, I've tried, and find it harder and harder to settle for half.
I am myself even when I go against your grain.
Even when my own desires frighten me.
Even when.