Today is a moody, sensitive hyper self-aware, self judging, just stupidly self focused day. It must be that strange monthly hormonal nonsense that hijacks my otherwise normal brain and morphs it into a sniveling questioning mess. Who am I? Am I good? Are my choices and interests too shallow and dull? Am I a valuable person? Is it ok to just be me? Or is this constant pressure in my own head to be better, actually a neurotically beneficial part of my kooky psychological makeup? I am sitting outside on my lunch break writing this. Previously listening to the Avett Brothers, whose sad, gorgeous, profound lyrics set me off into melancholia and minor weepiness. This is how I think today. This is what it sounds like in my head. All the questions tumbling and turning around, cluttering me up, so rational stays hidden under somewhere. I need to stay focused on work and this emotional deluge always corrects itself in 24 hours or so.
I'm not depressed. I get wistful and reflective. I think about lost friends, bad choices, serious moral missteps, am I good? Really good? Does anyone but me really care about the answer? What is my purpose? Am I just a shallow, comfortable girl? Do I risk, do I push, do I love enough, and show it enough? Am I unique or simply posing for the photograph of me in the way I think you want to see me? Why do I let people get under my skin so thoroughly? Why am I so judgmental myself, when there is no feeling I loathe more than being judged by some one else? Why when you disagree with me in a certain way do I want to punch you if not with a fist to the face then at least with stinging words? Why do I feel so selfish and unkind sometimes? Why does writing all this down actually help? Because it gets it out of my head. And in re-reading it I can actually answer half of my own questions, to some small degree.
There are little wrens picking at old french fries right next to me. These tiny fluttery creatures bounce and hop amongst the crumpled plastic grocery sacks and discarded Wendy's cups, just trying to find lunch. But somehow it's still lovely. The dirt and the grime pressed right up next to these perfect sharp little birds. The world is so gorgeous and brutal and complexly layered, mysterious, delightful and constantly baffling to me. The beauty and the trash so tightly connected, it is sometimes hard to separate the two. I am at once too black and white and yet somehow too gray.
I haven't just journaled in ages. Whatever I write lately: grants for work, brochure copy, lame status updates, my blog posts, these are all edited and crafted for public consumption with some goal in mind. Raise $10,000, educate people on a cause, share my concert experience, make you laugh or like me. But this is just for release. Releasing my jumbled thoughts to hard pen and paper. Maybe I'll create a blog post out of it, but maybe not. It might be too poorly written, too loose, too unflattering, just too ephemeral. But maybe you feel the same way sometimes. Maybe it's good to share. Or maybe none of this really matters at all. I don't know which I prefer today.