I write this with a clear mind: I want to change me.
The other night I spent a couple of hours reading my older entries and realize yet again, my tendency to write and re-write about the same things: the past and all its intricacies, my limited perspectives, honey-dripped words of advise, mental spots in my mind of select, particular memories of a handful of time when. My mind, sometimes it feels like one is scrolling through a mental compartment of carefully documented timeline, except that the triggers and therefore, the events, are the same. Always.
How many times do I want to write about the past, wishing it would unfold differently?
I stand on this side of freedom now, seeing as if for the first time, how little I’ve actually moved. Sure I’ve grown plenty, deepened that visceral depth, but why are my tendencies, like tics, curiously the same each time?
How many times do I want to rewind the clock to being seventeen, twenty-one…?
I’ve long realized that my pace is slow compared to others. Where others dive with gusto into the ocean of change, I am slower to adapt. Slow, leisurely walks by the beach, followed by a dip of toe, testing the water temperature. Like a turtle that takes its time and crawls at its own pace, until there is nothing left to do but to move forward.
How many times do I want to write about the sadness that is part of my DNA?
I sit here right now with a clear mind and sound, beating heart, glancing every so often at the steady, heavy beat of raindrops just outside my window. I sit here right now, fiddling curiously with happiness that has taken temporary solace by my window of perspectives, wishing and wanting to write myself differently. I am almost twenty-four, the age that I have always associated full-fledged adulthood with. Two-and-a-half-months shy from a new, but necessary, phase in my life.
“How could you, why would you expect to still want the things you did at twenty-two?”
I didn’t understand her question then because all I heard was its simplicity. All I felt was my childlike curiosities and long-imparted fears, which now frustrate me. What I remember most is the sadness and anger. As if adrift, constantly in search of a lifeline. Now I sit here with understanding at last dawning upon me: even if there is an infinite pool of mental spots in our minds – we, ourselves, are never stagnant. Dynamic as ever, constantly embraced and enraptured by the winds of change.
Shaped by the past, not defined.
Destroyed by the fire, resurrected through the flames.
Sometime not too long ago, I decided I would take myself less seriously. Being able to laugh at oneself is being at ease with oneself. I am not lessened because I am shallow with my laundry list of likes of the opposite gender for instance, nor is my intelligence an insult because my idea of downtime includes hours in front of a 13″ screen. Somewhere along the way, I decided that being me, in all my awkwardness and intensity and overthinking ways, meant not just embracing all of myself but presenting myself to others as a whole package. Hey, this is me. I don’t always say and think the smartest things, nor am I filled with an ocean of emotional wonderment. I have as many good days as bad days. Don’t fix your gaze and thoughts on me, recording my presence to minute detail; I am a kaleidoscope, changed with each view.
I write this with a clear mind: I want to change me. In a good way.