Daybreak
I don't know, some stuff about 2019 being entirely too tough on me, for the level of enthusiasm I had for it.
Most times, I generally don't put any thought into what I write - as I think so will the words come to mind. But I've taken a slower approach to writing. One that actually has me inhabiting my feelings and stretching my perceptive capacity to really tap into the root of what I want to say.
I'm becoming the one thing that might have spared me the grief I'm struggling to process - vulnerable.
If I was vulnerable, I might have found a spiritual father to help me grow through the loss of my biological father which would've had me in the right head space during my adolescence - to know how to identify a girl who's toxic and wholly not good for me at all.
Maybe I'd have dodged that bullet, completely unharmed going into the relationship that just died in my hands... my hands. I saw it fall apart and frantically tried to put it back together because I wasn't ready to live in my greatest fear, again. The agonizing part of it was that I could see, clear as daybreak, how and why it was my fault. No amount of growth or change could've undone my mistakes.
Maybe if I was vulnerable, I would've felt safe enough in the first place to reveal myself for what I am and what I want to get rid off to the love that could have, would have and should have.
But it didn't, because I didn't. Hindsight's 2020, right?
I was last week years old when I took the time to learn how to grieve; my granny's passing was the last straw. Like I said, 2019 was entirely too tough on me. I had brief moments when I could take a breath and pretend to be the bright-side-kinda-guy, but I'm really not. At least not now.
Vulnerability may have been the only thing I needed to protect the integrity of the happy and whole person I was.
But can you really experience wholeness, if you've never been broken?
Can you really say that you're true to your core values, if you don't even know what it's like to live outside of them?
Someone reading this (or typing this) may need to accept that letting go is the key to getting back what's meant to stay. It's a tired cliche and I want to punch myself out with a stiff drink for both believing and rejecting it with the same unseen faculties - more especially because I'm telling you about it, like I'm some sort of leading authority when I know I'm not.
But since I'm my own friend, I know that I need to hear the truth - it's making me mad but it'll set me free. I'd say the same to you, if you were me.
It's like a blindingly bright light that sears your retinas like tuna steaks, and you won't be happy about it because you were sleeping peacefully.
Once your eyes adjust, though, you'll know how to use them.
Pretty soon, you'll be able to see in the dark.
Then you'll know when you're reaching the edge of it by the first light of daybreak.
Most times, I generally don't put any thought into what I write - as I think so will the words come to mind. But I've taken a slower approach to writing. One that actually has me inhabiting my feelings and stretching my perceptive capacity to really tap into the root of what I want to say.
I'm becoming the one thing that might have spared me the grief I'm struggling to process - vulnerable.
If I was vulnerable, I might have found a spiritual father to help me grow through the loss of my biological father which would've had me in the right head space during my adolescence - to know how to identify a girl who's toxic and wholly not good for me at all.
Maybe I'd have dodged that bullet, completely unharmed going into the relationship that just died in my hands... my hands. I saw it fall apart and frantically tried to put it back together because I wasn't ready to live in my greatest fear, again. The agonizing part of it was that I could see, clear as daybreak, how and why it was my fault. No amount of growth or change could've undone my mistakes.
Maybe if I was vulnerable, I would've felt safe enough in the first place to reveal myself for what I am and what I want to get rid off to the love that could have, would have and should have.
But it didn't, because I didn't. Hindsight's 2020, right?
I was last week years old when I took the time to learn how to grieve; my granny's passing was the last straw. Like I said, 2019 was entirely too tough on me. I had brief moments when I could take a breath and pretend to be the bright-side-kinda-guy, but I'm really not. At least not now.
Vulnerability may have been the only thing I needed to protect the integrity of the happy and whole person I was.
But can you really experience wholeness, if you've never been broken?
Can you really say that you're true to your core values, if you don't even know what it's like to live outside of them?
Someone reading this (or typing this) may need to accept that letting go is the key to getting back what's meant to stay. It's a tired cliche and I want to punch myself out with a stiff drink for both believing and rejecting it with the same unseen faculties - more especially because I'm telling you about it, like I'm some sort of leading authority when I know I'm not.
But since I'm my own friend, I know that I need to hear the truth - it's making me mad but it'll set me free. I'd say the same to you, if you were me.
It's like a blindingly bright light that sears your retinas like tuna steaks, and you won't be happy about it because you were sleeping peacefully.
Once your eyes adjust, though, you'll know how to use them.
Pretty soon, you'll be able to see in the dark.
Then you'll know when you're reaching the edge of it by the first light of daybreak.
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