Honesty

The world sparkles less for me at the moment.  I’ve been here before.  I don’t like it.  So what now?

I’ve spent more than an hour trying to answer this question.  I thought I had one when I sat down to write this post, but nothing I say comes out honest.

I’ve been here before, so many times before, I want to know what the solution is – the way forward, the correct thing to do.  I want to have wisdom, and to give it anyone who may stumble across my blog in a time of need, but I’m coming up short.  I want to be experienced and worldly, but the truth is I’m a scared little girl pretending to be more than I really am so someone will love me.

I want to say something like “Only by looking through the shadow of our darker moments can we see the meaning that defines us” because it sounds so good but it’s empty.

I started reading Foucault, and it triggers interesting ideas, but I’m forced to confront how much will slip through my mind.  I want to be smart enough to understand him, but I’m not.  I can only be inspired by him.

Fuck you, Foucault.

I’m at my limit – the limit of my mind, limit of my maturity, limit of my heart.

And part of me still cries out as I write this, “But I’m still better than them, right?”  I’m still smarter than all those people who don’t read Foucault.  I’m still more mature than all those people who would have a complete meltdown after losing their job.  I’m still more loving than those controlling monogamous girlfriends who won’t accept the pain of their partner’s freedom.

I feel obliged to say here “But I’m not better than them” so I can also console myself by thinking of my humility, but that’s not my truth.

My truth is that these things don’t matter.

 

My truth is that on the inside, I am violent and I don’t know if that’s normal, and I don’t know if I want it to be.

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