…with the status of my emotions.
I’ve come to accept and appreciate that I don’t hardly write from a place of joy or content. I feel lost. Always, if I’m being honest with myself. Even when I think I have a direction, it’s monetary forward movement, never actual trajectory. The most accurate way to describe my life: I’ve never been sure about anything, other than that I’m unsure about everything. And somehow that still finds its way to boring me. It boils, because I’m not living with purpose.
I’ve got accomplishments that I’m proud of, some days even downright happy all the way to my heartbeat, but it never feels like enough. I’m keeping myself – discontent and it tastes of stale coffee and worn out patterns. I think I’d rather be on the precipice than solid ground. This habitual need for chaos is tireless.
I reluctantly and hopelessly admit that I want to share these things I’ve worked so hard for with someone – not out of loneliness, but connection. The caveat: fearful of the inevitable and thirst-quenching requirement for independence without codependence and the ability to make hasty, but valuable choices that my heart is leading without the external a-ffect.
Maybe my purpose is to live a life of intention – to love myself so deeply that everyone I love yearns to do the same, to find a lesson in everything that pains me so others see that there is always something to be gained, to acknowledge my imperfections and allow myself to feel vulnerable so the world begins to believe that admitting we aren’t always pillars of strength is in fact power, not the opposite.