Today, I feel off balance. It's been like that for quite a while now. The weekend starts, and I smile less, feel too much on my shoulders, and feel like I am without bearing as the clock ticks. I begin to worry—and I don't even know why—and begin to feel the effect of being in an environment that's so isolated and without a certain amenity that I have been born used to.
"Where exactly do I want to see myself in a couple of weeks, months, or years?" The subliminal thoughts glaze through like a wind from nowhere through my ears. It's almost as if I hear a whisper that's so tiny yet so loud in my head. It's a familiar voice, that's for sure—a voice that I have known since birth. Yet I barely understand its words sometimes. The words sound like I know them, but I can't quite picture the whole thing. They reflect my emotions; they wreak of my worries, and their voices sound like mine. Or, wait, it is mine.
I am thinking. As a person speaks to me in such a moment, I hear but don't listen. As I read in that moment, I saw but did not assimilate. And, then, I ask myself afterwards, "Wait, what did I read (or hear) just now?" I would have to go over it again, if I could, to comprehend what I didn't pay attention to.
This passion you all speak of—what exactly is it? Can one have so many that they don't have a grip on one, or themselves, even? Can one have none but think they do? Is there such a thing as false passion? Am I doing too much, or am I doing too little? Do I know too much, or am I missing something? I don't say, but my emotions reflect. Sometimes, though, I do not understand the emotions. But I recognize that I feel.
Here and now, my thoughts are all over. Am I too afraid to try that thing people call love? Or is my definition quite different and, maybe, far-fetched, and my standards bizarre? Or have I truly not healed from losing the last time?
Do people not see that I am capable of feeling hurt, capable of needing care and affection, or do they really think my head contains a big brain and I am self-sufficient?
"I am an open book," but then I know within myself that I keep secrets from even myself. My mind is wide, my heart is large, and I think they both contribute to how I feel sometimes. Is being "too nice" an actual thing, and is it a bad thing?
Surely, I sound depressed to you at this point. Maybe I really am. I would like to admit that, since being in denial of the reality of it only takes me deeper.
At times, it's the thought of what I missed as a kid and still miss today, taken away from me because of someone's irresponsibility and negligence. It's gone forever, though, and I am okay with that. When my kids see how great I am to them, they'll never know why, and they'll never need to. It still gets me raged now, though, and I rarely feel raged.
"How could I have just let go when I almost had it?" Another thought comes swiftly like the wind again and goes just as swift, but in those milliseconds, I cringe at my nonchalance at certain points in my life. I'd like to not repeat them, though.
Maybe it's all the work I have to do over the entire weekend that puts me in this mood. Yeah, it is the entire burden I have to shoulder. "Shed some weight, man." I have been told before. I just can't not do something, and that's where the problem often lies: not reaching the limit of my capabilities and drawing a boundary I shouldn't cross. The nonchalance again.
Or maybe I just spend too much time alone and think far too deeply. Either way, I am assessing myself in the process, I think. I guess it's got some good in it after all.
Hmmm...but wait? What did I just ramble about for the last few minutes? I'd like to think they aren't my thoughts. But could I have been speaking someone else's mind, or am I saying what the voice was whispering to me?
I guess I'll feel better after the weekend; I usually do. And then I'd cringe over all that's here.
