I had a conversation the other night with someone who was telling me about how the telling of stories is the quickest and best way to inform yourself that you have left the present.
And I realized shortly thereafter that I am better at writing stories than I am at living life...most especially in the present moment.
I guess my main issue with writing all these stories is that I lack the ability to really make them come to fruition...and yet, somehow I seem to miss that every single time. I think I have the power to transmogrify the thoughts in my head, the feelings in my heart and the needs of my body into something real, living in the here and now. So far, it is this attempt, repeatedly, to make what occurs between my ears, a reality that has fucked me up way more than almost anything else in my life.
And I think this mismatching of the life, this wanting to live in my head and the inability to make it occur outside of my head, has been and continues to be an ongoing issue and problem. I have this head that tells me things and I believe them, and the fact they often defy all logic and reason, and sometimes the laws of physics and man, is something that just doesn’t occur to me in the moment.
I don’t have much else to say on this topic, mostly because I am still allowing this most basic and fundamental truth to sink in. And I will admit there is a part of me that feels very squirmy and is having trouble allowing myself to sit with this at all. I want to be better at living life, than telling stories but the data just isn’t there. No, stories I am great at, loving and living in the here in now without all the projections and protections my mind throws up at me, seems very difficult and often times, impossible.
So I guess now I will do what I always do with some nugget of truth that lands but is painful, unfamiliar and hurtful...I will learn to allow it to assimilate. For it to sink into my consciousness, my bones, my spirit and my soul and trust that I will be given all that I need to change the things that are within my grasp.
And, perhaps more importantly, I will allow those things, people, stories, fantasies and the like to just pass me by, just allow them to die whatever death they appear to need. And be aware, that all loss and longing creates in me a very strong, innate desire to write a story to provide me strength and courage and the ability to move forward one more day.
Again.
Still.
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