For the past several months, I haven't wanted to write about things that aren't real. My imagination has run off with creativity. There was nothing I could do but stay behind with empty hands. I am hoping they both come back to me.
"It's good to let go," is what I tell myself.
In the meantime, I've turned to reality, zeroing in on the little intimacies of life instead. Those fleeting moments that wisp by just out of reach like a child grasping for a released balloon.
Moments like: A drink with a coworker; the way heat rises to your cheeks when blushing. Sharing in words of intrigue with a stranger. A chortle of happiness with someone you love. I observe, take note, and reflect on these moments that make us human. Moments that are the caulk in the brick walls that make up us. The delicacies we let slip away.
Even with these small happenings, that carry the weight of our very existence, I don't feel present. I don't feel alive. For those that are concerned, I'm not depressed. Been there, and this isn't it. The issue is, I'm not growing. I'm stuck, like an ant in amber. You can find me trapped on the other side, banging on the wall, wondering how to get out—drowning in lack of purpose.
Maybe it's the winter; possibly, it's Ohio. Or perhaps I fall into that horrible title 'Millennial' because I desperately am searching for direction, and nothing seems to fit. Classify it however you want but know this; My skin itches to feel the thrill of life. I crave the desire for everything. I want to pursue endless adventures. I want my taste buds to ignite, my ears to light up, my voice to cease with pause, and my eyes to burn with lust for anything and everything that I do.
And even with this poetic, and unnecessary confession of desire, all I can think about doing is going to the desert—the place where life fights every day to live.
When I'm feeling this way, un-progressing, I imagine myself out there among the sandy dunes. Dusty, and exhausted standing out of the sunroof of a car. With arms open wide, screaming at the top of my lungs. The wind is whipping in my hair. The sun is scorching the earth beneath my feet. And I feel both scared like I'm about to crash and burn, and yet wholly carefree. There is nothing in front of me except the open road. In this reverie, someone is driving the car, but who, I couldn't tell you. And even that is all apart of the fun. Don't you think? The unpredictability of it.
Some people—yes, I'm generalizing—are going to read this and place me into a category, one that meshes with their ideologies. That's fine. We all do it, improperly class people on a few interactions, if any at all.
To those people I'd like to ask this, is it so bad that I have a grandiose imagination about the things I want in life? Am I just some stuck up twenty-something girl because I want to play with the blurred line between fantasy and reality?
I don't think so, because it's the only way I survive in this world. One daydream at a time. And with that thought is where this unsolicited monologue ends.
This mess of a ramble is brought to you by semi-late (it's now only 10 pm) night thoughts and lots of emotions. I never decide what I want to write, post, or share. The thoughts merely fall out of my brain and onto a page. And once they're out, all I can do is sit back and let them live with the hope that they resonate with someone. Because that's all, any of us want to do. We cant to connect with the people and the world around us.