It’s not good to carry all that love.
Publicly I am nothing but thankful. When I sit down to write (or attempt) another medium article that exposes my vulnerability in the perfect way, I have nothing more to describe other than the confetti that sparkles and shines and obstructs an often more ugly view of it all. Summer break for me has always felt lonely, no matter what happens or what is happening. I’m still trying to learn that those types of feelings, the ones that leave a sour taste and leave you bitter, simply (not in a sad way) are a factor of living with my uniquely emotional mind. I’ll ride my bike, inconsistently practice yoga, scrape my knee on my brother’s old car, curse myself for another unproductive day and then blame it all on the “healing.”
Privately I am a mess. There has been a lot that happened to me that is hard and unprocessed. Yet, when I have bad dreams that clearly spell out my hatred for the people that have hurt me, I wake up and swear to myself that none of it’s true. It’s almost as if I have this unspoken belief that it is bad luck to be angry, and it’s even worse if that kind of rage attaches itself to someone else (even if I know they deserve it). As contradictory as it sounds, it’s not good to carry all that love.
I wish I could show other people the type of person I really am.
This passage has been stuck in my drafts for a while. I come back to it often:
Maybe my love for solitude stemmed from rejection but that doesn’t matter to me anymore. If something is a blessing and a curse, then all that matters is that it is good, I’m willing to look past all the ugly and the red.
Go read “Wild Geese” again by Mary Oliver, and sit outside.
From me,
-nadia mysteria x.
