The Winter of My Discontent

Am I choosing to be miserable? Am I choosing to languish in a constant state of waiting by making other people responsible to initiate change for me? Am I staying in relationships and friendships that stunt my spiritual, emotional, and psychological evolution?

Yes.

One of the things I immediately understood upon making the concession to return to more purposeful analysis is that I would have to open my palm and learn to hold loosely everything I currently hold dear. I hold lies dear. The lie of the image of who I am, who I have made myself be, to others. I hold fantasy dear, and prefer it to the nitty gritty reality of what it means to be in relationships with people. I hold safety dear, and as a result have become a lead footed curmudgeon. I hold control dear. So dear, in fact, that I don't give myself the freedom to be spirited along my journey, and enjoy not having to grasp desperately at the reigns. I hold grasping dear, and therefore, do not understand the dizzying joy of letting myself be pursued.

This is the soundtrack of my waning psychosis:

the clacking of the keys on the keyboard as I write the book I've been trying to write since I was 10 years old

the sound of sirens playing in remix mode outside my window

the sound of hookers laughing deeply on street corners

the sound of train whistles, forlorn and pure, blaring into a night's fog

and

the cessastion of the sound of my own voice cursing me for being who I am