calling myself back home
There are times when life gets away from me.
And after the dust settles, I must work my way back to myself.
Back to a place where I live in my head, in words, in my writing. In my heart. Living the life I want to live, being the person I want to be. Paying attention to what’s important and looking past all the things that are not.
I love it when I’m there, it’s where I want to be, everyday. But during those times when life comes by and drags me away, kicking and screaming, I find myself in a different place, a place of distraction, disorientation, indecision.
I then I am not who I was five minutes ago.
I am not where I was yesterday, grounded. I am lost. Out of place. And all I want is to feel that comfort and that strength and that focus.
So I’m working on it, working my way back to my words, through my words. Working my way up this hill once again, one rock and slippery slope at a time.
I know that when I get there, the view will have changed, that is life. The words I thought were there will tell a different story. I know this, but it does not stop me, does not keep me from climbing. It does not keep me from ignoring the mud on my feet, the scratches on my legs, the burdens of life that weigh me down.
Because when I stand on the top of that hill once again, I will feel whole and centered. I will feel like me.
The me I want to be, rather than the stressed-out, tearful mess I was last week.
The me with roots in this hill of words and hair that whispers in the breeze.
The me with vowels and consonants flowing through her veins.
The me inside the words.
And then I will spill myself out between the lines, bleeding
thoughts and feelings I did not know existed,
until I stitch myself back together
one comma, one hyphen
at a time.
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