Ever wish you had ready access to one of those strong man towers found at the traveling circus, the kind you whack with a comically oversized soft mallet to determine strength or hotness quotient?
Don’t you wish there was such a machine to measure happiness?
The blog of late has been a bit introspective, a little boo-hooing. I blame both spring and yoga for the deep look inward. And the fact I haven’t been laid in months. Kidding aside, it’s a time for change and renewal and recycling. It feels safe to express the gray out of my fingertips rather than face-to-face. I’m not brave, especially given the core of who I was and who I was told to be. My wants and needs have flip-flopped. With so much having fallen away, it’s a rebuilding time. I insist friends hold me up, where in the past I was the foundation. Can’t save myself anymore or, more succinctly, I choose not to. I want to trust hands will emerge and catch me when I stumble. I plan to stumble along for a while yet.
I’m still a flirt, a cad some think. But don't invite the saucy girl over and get mad if the top comes off, know what I mean?
If I run away briefly, catch me and stop me. If you want me. I don’t want to hurt, and I have been hurting. And left collateral damage, hurting others in the process. I apologize where I've helped make those beds. But I don’t accept the blaming. I get when I’ve been used.
Each morning I embrace the day. I love my spirit and my body and my choices, I’m aware of my loneliness as much as my independence. And I’m a good person. I struggle to understand why or if anyone does or would love me. That’s truth. Some do, I know, because the feeling reflected back in simple ways and manners empties my chest in joy. They know it. Those two are my spirit, like oxygen always there. I have to stop forgetting to breathe them in.
Because when I’m given nothing it’s all I’ve got. Stole that from Bono.
Love to you that love (or tolerate) me.