It’s one of those days. Maybe it’s the weather…the weather that forces you inside, into your introspective depths. And as I explore my soul and self, I find myself unworthy.
I was recently called an “American” in the derogatory sense that “I have everything but still want the one thing I don’t have.” Or something like that. It’s weighing on my heart. It was a response to a statement that I had made about my being successful. And in some ways I am successful. I have a great career in the area I choose (Art Director), I teach yoga, I’m learning the violin, I do my own art, I have amazing friends and family…and yet I want a special connection with someone.
Admittedly I may be watching too many Ally McBeal reruns.
But right now I am overwhelmed with sadness, and I’m not really sure why. Well, that’s not true, I didn’t swallow a fly, but I swallowed a mountain of unworthiness. I am not the amazing artist I want to be, and don’t deserve to be called an artist. I am not the amazing meditator/yogi I want to be, and don’t deserve to be teaching. I am not even a whole, satisfied, happy person, so I don’t deserve a special connection with someone I love.
As is said often about me, I’m amazing on paper, but in reality, it turns out I’m just a Monet (yes, flashback to Clueless, how embarrassing.) I half-ass most of my stuff and try to blur it out so everything thinks I am amazing but if you look closely, it’s mediocre. It’s like I love and leave quickly so I don’t have to dive into the depths and see my truth. I live in complete antithesis of how I want to live.
If only I could live up to my full potential. Bring the notes on the paper swirling into life and luminescence. I don’t want to be as bright as the sun, for that is my balance. I want to be quiet and soulful like the moon. I would like to bloom into the void lotus I am, softly unfolding and sharing my velvet petals one at a time.
I’m caught up in my head though, too concerned about society than myself. Too wrapped up in axioms and mores that may not be mine. And if I’m not careful, I will swallow the mediocre, marinate in it, become it, and I guess I’ll die.