19. Well, I’m back.
Dear Special One,
So, I’ve run away for a long while. I’ve focused on other things, things which are not this thing here.
My mojo to write everyday, of the everyday, was difficult especially in light of heavy rainy days when my heart and mind just wanted to stay closed.
Tonight is a little different. I can’t explain why, but tonight I am here with you, writing you, loving you.
Tonight begins with the usual banality of the to-do’ s and have-to-get-done’ s. I refuse to approach my desk, I can’t just grit my teeth and sit, not tonight at least; I just don’t want to have to do that…at least tonight.
I still can’t explain why tonight is a little different. Maybe the reason why I can’t explain why it is, is because it’s not. I just want it to be different.
I’m waiting tonight. For what?
I still don’t know. Days like these make me so uneasy, so flustered, like a bird in a cage that finally feels the air from the outdoors and is excited by it.
What am I waiting for? Myself to arrive? (The next question that should follow is, the old or the new you?)
People talk about the evolution of themselves into brighter, stronger men and women through hardship, happiness, death and life. All these cause growth from young age through adolescence to adulthood; they say you change and become this revolutionized new, you, someone more able to take it all…laser eyes excluded.
What if that new you is nothing more than the triviality you hate in other people? What if you’re becoming your mother? Your father? That person you feel you can’t possibly identify with? What if that’s you? Could you then be the change you want to see in the world? Probably not.
I don’t know where this is going to go, but my idea tonight is that identity is a horrible misnomer. You never really know who you are, what you are capable of or what’s in store for you, so you’re identity is malleable, just like when you choose to have vanilla and chocolate ice cream for dessert instead of frozen yogurt with lots of strawberries…dessert, it’s never fixed.
It’s no wonder so many people spend their whole life searching for their identity to finally be able to explain why they act the way they do, to explain why they feel they way they do, to explain who they ARE.
Identity is nothing more than a misnomer. I am nothing more than another beating heart on this bed, in this city, under this sky floating in magnetic pulls in this infinite, quiet universe I have never seen or will know.
I don’t know what to say, I feel the burn of the eyes and the hot lamp sending waves of heat on my nose, feeling the sweat droplets accumulation til it drips down, glossy and full of residue, waiting for me to say something new, old, even wrong, but I can’t even disappoint you like that tonight.