Feeling the pull away from some of my chosen forms of expression into new ones. Curious and scared to see what it will look like. Even the thought of changing what one has done for a lifetime is scary, though aging makes it easier as you realize time marches on. Trying to remember I don’t have to rip, tear, cut, sever. I can pull apart, stretch out, away, let the dough of it all pull apart, morph, take new shapes, bake or stay raw. Wondering if a clean, surgical, cold, calculating cut is the best, though. Like ripping off a band-aid, just fucking do it. Trying to stay open-minded, open-eyed, open-hearted, and remember that finding a place in a scene, appealing as that can be, is rarely all it’s cracked up to be in the long run, and finding a place you can live with when you are by yourself in the quiet times is the way to follow. Breathing. Staring at the wall. Watching the stars behind the swirling fog. Marveling at the blue. Excited, scared, at the edge of a cliff, floating on the river, going with the flow, middle fingers up, chin high, shining eyes down, riding the wave, trusting the self, going deep, staying broad, cutting out the chatter, laughing at the good jokes, side-eying the bad, calling it as I see it.
*sniffs* *whimpers* *howls*
Change is in the air.
Bring it.
monica b. 