Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

It’s been years, but long ago I remember what it felt like to believe in magic. No, let me describe that another way, it’s hard to, when you’re streamlining, flowing, brain-flowing, freewriting. Because the same old words bubble up to catch up, to catch you, your safety nets, your winge. Winge. Wings. But long ago I remember what it felt like to be infused with the belief that life would keep on getting more magical. That old age wouldn’t catch me, that everything would always improve, that I could Kaizen my evolution, that I would only get more beautiful and more wise and more savvy and more patient, and more perfect – just in the sense that I’d become more the person I always wanted to be.

But I’ve found that’s not the case. Or it doesn’t’ feel like the case. It’s actually the case that I have these horrid disfigurements, and even that is so curious, because it’s a different kind of caring that I hold of it. I am more detached of my imperfections, even as I come to see them grow, or at least emerge, ever more grand that I ever expected them to be.

I’m a beautiful failure. I am so pathetic and it is wonderful that it is so. Long ago, I used to think that it was ME who would improve, ME who would grow to be a halo-ed old woman, but I see that is not so. There is no me involved. The only beauty left of me is when I disappear to let god play me.

Long ago I used to think I was right. I remember thinking that I was right, and justified. But now I am so riddled with foibles, I mean, I’m kind of an ugly person—and again, not so bad. I’m just, not the magnificent creature I thought I would be.

It’s terribly disappointing, as you can imagine. I ache and ache and ache to think of who I was, maybe 4, 5, 6—7? Years ago. (the last 3 years? A total bust, in my mind. No-no, don’t try to talk reason into me. I’m stubborn and have decided that ever since December 2010 I think, or 2011, whenever I returned from New York—that was it.

Years ago I used to carry around a lot of hope. There was hope and optimism that I was striving toward something better. That I would become something Better. That Better was possible. Now I don’t think so. Now I am just trying to figure out how to slowly let go of caring. Because I wish I was still that girl. I wrestle with the pain of losing this image of who I thought I was – and am grateful to anyone who not only tolerated, but loved her – and instead I am figuring out how to yank enough humility from inside my gut, and repent. Even now, as I take this job and watch me let go of my dreams, I bow low not just to thank them, for what they served and how long they carried me, but to let the whole world know that I now understand that the joke was on me.

§1326 · July 21, 2013 · Freewrites · · [Print]

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