Who I Want to Be

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I have been trying to get back to this blog forever. And it’s not like life has been all that crazy either. I mean things have been happening, but nothing exciting that could keep me from spending a few quick seconds shooting off something here.

I want to be that prolific, and I want to write with every fiber of my being. Yet in spite of all the time that I have and all the resources at my disposal, I still haven’t done a damn thing. There is no one and nothing to blame but me. I haven’t put the effort in, so I have nothing to show.

All the wanting and good intentions in the world can’t produce shit without action. Otherwise, I would have roughly fifty novels finished, published, and on the best seller list by now. Which given that no such books are available, one can safely assume that it hasn’t happened.

In a perfect world, I would use this desperate wanting and make something. There are dozens of projects, writing or otherwise, that are taking up vital brain space up in my attic. Any one of them I could easily accomplish if I made the decision to. But, because I am still refraining from making any active decisions in my life at any level, here we are.

End rant, begin psychological assessment. It starts with a dress.

Pictured above is the dress in fact. One I purchased out of dire need just a few short days ago for a semi-formal wedding. Because I didn’t own anything even resembling formal in any conceivable form. It was a necessary thing, so I was going to take whatever I could get.

In the end, I had it down to two options. A somber black sleeveless with floral embroidery, or a screaming highlighter pink dress with black floral accents. The black should have been option one, as it is closest to something I would wear more than once. But as you can see, for reasons against reason I came home with the latter.

At the time I wasn’t going to get the black just for the fact it was too close to what my mother was going to get for the event. And there still is that juvenile need to distance myself from her. And then wearing any black to a wedding seemed to be bad juju. But now that I am not overtired at 8:00 on a Thursday night before a Saturday wedding, I have another theory.

One of the biggest failings I share with my mother is this crippling need to live exactly how we define ourselves. Which basically amounts to a kill them with kindness, give the world everything until you are literally carving it from your own flesh sort of thing. Salt of the Earth simple folk who look at the world wondering why everyone is living and dying for all this stupid shit.

Anything that falls outside of that creates this stomach-churning reaction that feels like sirens screaming in my head like it is the wrongest and most horrible thing imaginable. Kind of how I imagine evangelicals feel when something doesn’t overtly glorify God. This makes it very hard for me to exist in this modern world which runs so contrary to my self-imposed morals and ethics.

Which is where the dresses come in. The black is who I am, simple and quiet and good at hiding in corners. But just a few splashes of color/personality to keep it interesting. The pink is who I want to be. Loud and proud, full of vitality and energy. Someone completely open and in love with life and afraid of nothing.

But there is the clash. Something so against who I am and who I see myself as that even now after the fact I still look at it with a grimace thinking of the money I spent for a dress I might not wear again. Kind of like how I feel when I enter a church knowing that I’m essentially a heretic, and I feel like there is a giant spotlight on me that says that I am a liar.

The reality is though, it is all about the decision. From the decision to be the type of person who creates with abandon, to the decision to wear whatever the hell I want to, ignoring both my own and others thoughts real or perceived. That is who I want to be. And this is who I will become. That is why this post exists.

I am back, and with any luck, I’m not going anywhere.

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