A small collection of the randomness within this mind these past days…
I have the urge to stand outside an abortion clinic with a sign that says “No matter the choice made, you deserve to be loved” In my imagination, I picture a sudden focus on me. Protesters suddenly distracted. And no matter their antagonizing words, I am but silent. My sign says it all. Even for the ones that project hate and divide, that find the only way to pursue a cause is to make others feel shame, guilt, label them as god did Cain, but they are not god, why don’t they see that? Yes, they too, even in the midst of their insidious plight, deserve to be loved.
Leaping across the rooftops of Dharamsala. A morning fog cascading down the Himalayas. If I could but reach high enough to touch.
The faces of the men I have loved and left, or been deserted by. The realization that this loneliness in my heart is growing. My sense of being loved faltering. A sense of community an illusion. I am but one that stands in isolation. To go unseen, unnoticed. To take an opposing side no matter the topic. Just to shake minds. This place of neutral is such an abandoned land. Extremists about me.
No man will ever love me as I am. I will never take his name. May never bear his child, I have yet to decide. I can stand alone. If I take him by the hand, walk a path beside him, it is not because I need him, but because I decided I wanted him. So many men don’t understand this. A couple of years ago, I decided to fill out an E-harmony survey, yes, laugh, and the results were no one. No man in their database matched my answers enough. I have quietly felt this to be of more truth than a computerized system could realize. If I accept this now, then what worries will be upon this heart and mind in the year’s to come?
My eyes are hurting too much. They ache. I’m squinting more often. The astigmatism has been coming quicker through my lens. The images blur within my eye, and I can only but trust that the spinning of the automatic focus is holding true.
I want to chop off my hair. I keep saying one day I’ll dye it purple, a rich deep hue, plum violet mix.
I haven’t dreamed much as of late. Where have the dreams gone? They reveal more of me than even I know.
After shopping for several hours and only having two small bags to show for it, I thought any man that sees a woman walking out of a mall with this amount of stuff should think, “I could marry a gal like that.” It made me laugh.
This time next year, I wish to not be on Charleston soil. I need to know. Two more months. My answer will be given.
So much less trivial thoughts. But I can’t speak of them in this place. Too taboo, too personal, too much cowardice. But I want to, I need to, my tongue rambles the words I want to type even now, but my fingers have learned to not listen. They protect me. From what, I do not know. But it is this silence of the taboo that impedes me most. My silence no better than an advocate thinking only one avenue, one right way, is the only way to bring change. My silence is true cowardice. When will the time come?