Stalking Bliss
Perfect is...
Bad.
Stifling.
Uncreative.
Boring.
Dead.
Wrong.
Still here...
gnashing.
On another note...TV is a novelty to me since I haven't had one at my house in several years. I forgot how you can power up the TV and power down your brain... The damn thing is like an elixir for the horrendous grinding that my brain, and, because the two are connected, my body is experiencing right now. The TV is incredibly pacifying -- even the high pitched shrills of those ladies on the View. What the f*** has happened to me?? Really.
A Test of Faith
I feel as though I have been engaged in some sort of Trial for the past few years. I've never had a crisis of faith before. I've taken my relatively stable beliefs and convictions for granted. They are crumbling beneath me. What does one do in these instances?? What does one do if she does not, CANNOT
believe? What. does. she. do?! Pray???
Why can't I understand this?
This needs to happen now. Not "tomorrow" now. Not "in fifteen" minutes now. Now is the time. Now is the time. You needn't be at all perfect or ready. You need to take one step. And then another. One step. Easy now. Then, another. There is nothing to be afraid of. If you tumble, I will scoop you up, laugh a good, hearty laugh, and put you on your feet again. It will be scary, but also exciting and fun. But you will never know that unless you begin.
Listen...
I've come to the suburbs for some silence. My parents are on a vacation for the entire week. I'm here, in their house, and the only thing outside of me that is making any noise is the chrome refrigerator. It is grumbling in the same language as my stomach, which I can also hear. I smile because this makes sense -- the refrigerator and my stomach -- they are kin.
I've been here for a little less than a day and a half. It's nice. It's quiet.
Normally, I am overwhelmed by noise. I am overwhelmed by the chatter-clutter of the world. I'm dizzied by it. I'm depressed by it. I don't want to add to it. I want to be silent. But the world tells me that silence is bad. It tells me I must think and talk and write. Fast. Confidently. A lot. Successful women are social. Successful women articulate. Smart women thrust their own faltering voices into the mix or die a terrible death. I am here (hear? ) to say: I don't want to talk. I don't want to write. I would rather be quiet. Very quiet. Silent. I would rather watch and listen than talk.