Diary of a Dunce

A Glass Box

Over the course of almost... a year and a half I've been silent. Nothing more than a wisp of a soul lost in the endless masses of eyes, and just like a wound, I return. Open, and bare, and cleaned out. Or so I would like to say.

There has been many thing's I've been more afraid of than writing. Afraid I've lost who I am amongst my imaginings, afraid I've worn down almost all the good I used to be, afraid of being human. Having a gift, as some would deem it, would be a waste to let go. It's difficult to really see though, because looking from the outside in, there's nothing wrong. Sunshine sings and water runs clear, the birds never stop singing their beautiful melody, and in their eyes... it couldn't be more perfect.

From the inside looking out, I envy. Honestly, there could be worse things I feel, malice, jealousy, anger... I prefer to have envy. Envy can be felt on a multitude of levels, and morph into the things listed above, but not my envy. My envy is wistful, like the hope of a child, innocent, beautiful. My envy is pitied, because more than anything I truly do wish to believe that everything is okay. Maybe it's the irony of being a writer, most writers are known for their tortured souls, their macabre or jovial outlook on the mundane life we're all given.

I'd like to think I fall somewhere between the two, teetering on the edge threatening to fall on either side at any given moment. How youthful of me, unable to decide on the simple things of life. Maybe that comes from having an option, I'm not sure. I do recognize the chance I've been given, more than what other people would be able to have and I'm grateful. For the breath I am able to breathe, I'm thankful. Like all things however, I wish to stop the biggest thing hindering me from living, from truly appreciating the life that so many get to feel.

Fear, twisted into a storm of doubt and self-consciousness is what roams my mind and like always there's nothing special about it. It's more common than many would like to admit, sure, pretending everything is fine. Life isn't going downward, that we are actually free... and maybe, in certain moments we are.

This past year I've felt observed. Never touched, never seen as a being of life, never heard. This year however, as limited as it all has been, I've felt alive. I've felt true fear, true anger, true forgiveness... true, unbridled love. All of that has lodged a pain in my chest, one that is heavy and broken and wonderful. I wonder if dancing in fire is anything like this, it's painful, but it's the only way that I know I'm alive, at least in current pandemic situations.

I've made too many promises, loved too hard, and the hardest part? Saying goodbye. We tell ourselves there's no way we would, we'd fight too hard, love too much for anything bad to happen. Until it does. Until we have no way to fight, and fate forces us to let go, be it suddenly, or a slow burn that eats away your very being.

A glass box is quiet, perfect for observing, and to be observed. I am on display with every word I write, every simile, every metaphor, every piece of romanticism that makes up my outlook on life that has been so deeply rooted in opportunity, and in my being. Letting go in a glass box is the hardest thing to do, and yet, here I am.