who the fuck am i even? i’m just tired. who am i even? do i even like myself? does that even matter? i don’t know who i am. i don’t know what i am. none of this makes sense. i feel my spirit being pulled towards something else. something else. something else. writing, this is a tricky thing. writing. somehow, someway, simply through these words you see here displayed on your screen, i am supposed to communicate to you the happenings of my soul. and funnily enough, sometimes it works, or sometimes, it points to something going on in your own soul. sometimes both. and yet, despite the impulse i have to translate feeling into the verbal and written, i feel as if no matter how much i say, i still have a hand clasped over my mouth. no matter what i do, no matter what i say, no matter how much i drive a point home, something is lost, there is some distance, some gap that i cannot close no matter what. no matter how hard i try, there is this distance. i’ve learned so much during my time here on earth. one of the things i’ve gotten best at is being a performer. i perform no matter what i am doing. adapting, changing, contorting to fit the stencil of the eye before me. is that the gap? is that what it is? is it that i haven’t quite learned how to not be liked? do i distance myself from others unwittingly because of this? do i demonstrate an untruth to those before me to elicit positive reaction? isn’t that the problem of love, though? to demonstrate who you are not in order to receive love isn’t receiving love because that most tightly veiled part of yourself is kept private, that part of yourself that needs it the very most is hidden for none to see. that part of yourself that needs love the most is so afraid of not receiving it that it acts in ways that only push it away more.
but you know what i learned? i learned the more i dialogued with that part of myself and communicated it — raw, ugly, unrefined, not palatable — the more prepared i became to actually love and be loved. so funny.
but i guess i am just… done trying. i don’t want to have to try so hard anymore. i’ve been punishing myself. has it been punishment? i don’t even know. i don’t think i’ve been acting as if i like myself. there’s been some deep dissatisfaction. i… want to rest. i want to stop trying. i want to be like water again. i am doing choosing an uphill ascent constantly when i don’t have to. can i just be the river and float downstream? can i just be myself again? i don’t want to have to hide from the world. i want someone i can open my heart to. but isn’t it strange, the grass is always greener. why wait to open your heart to another when you can do it with yourself?
even now, when i write. there is that fear. that i need to write and make it sound good. because what? if it sounds bad, then what? then what happens? then someone will come across this blog, not resonate with it, think it is bad, and it is left to oblivion. but then what? what happens then? i don’t even think it’s the fear of someone disliking it, maybe it’s the fear of not being significant? maybe it’s the fear of not being remarkable? where on earth does that even come from? what if no one ever sees this blog? who. cares. who the fuck cares. who the fuck cares anymore. i want to like me. and i mean, really like me. like actually like me. and you know what? i can’t tell if growing into someone i can like is a matter of changing myself or changing what standards i have for liking someone or something. maybe it’s both. maybe the part of me that is so reluctant to like things and people and the part of me that is so quick to see flaws inner and outer is the very part of me that i do not like. i don’t know. but that’s the scar tissue, that’s the bitterness and hardness that builds up over time, vitriol that crystallizes over the liver such that you wince and clasp it because there’s something over it that it cannot digest, that you aren’t digesting, and yet you’re only consuming more of it: vitriol, disharmony, bile, bile, bile, bile, at each other and everywhere you look and go. and i don’t know who got sick first: me or the world?
i don’t know anymore, none of this is relevant. none of this is significant. do you know what it is? do you want to know what is at the heart of all of this? it is the desire to have hope. to be happy. maybe it is that i see so many unhappy souls and hearts out there. maybe i want to cultivate a happy heart, to show that it can be done, maybe if i find happy for me then i can help others do the same. maybe that’s it.
but here’s the thing, right now, this very moment, at the heart of all of this. i forgot to speak on how i feel. why? i guess it’s because i ran into trouble speaking on how i felt too much. i guess it’s because i was told directly or indirectly by someone i was very close to at a time that i was overly dramatic and emotional. and guess what, i was, i absolutely was. i was also told i didn’t work enough and spent too much time dedicated to self-care. and guess what, that was true too. that was very true. but you know what else? when i commit myself to something, i go for it, when i say i’ll do something, i usually do it. so when i said i was going to change, i did, and my life has now changed. here i am living alone. but do you know what i miss? it’s the magic. it’s the magic that permeated nearly every waking moment before. it’s the magic of the sea, the magic of the moon, of the saltwater cleansing my airways, cleansing my spirit, making everything make sense and making everything feel alive. i’ve matured in a way i’m not sure i like. there’s things i do like about how i’ve changed — but you know what it is, perhaps, that i miss most of all? it’s the lack of orderliness. when did everything i did need to be recorded and checked off on a to do list as some achievement? every mile counted, every meditation prescribed. what about being taken by an impulse on a whim? what about the formlessness of the sea? what of that? what of forgetting about work and about school and about what i need to do and clean my home and do my laundry and exercise and watch what i eat and read and meditate and do my homework and do my work and who am i becoming and who am i becoming and i can’t just sit without needing to achieve and i can’t just sit without needing to achieve and holy shit this is never who i was where did this come from and i used to not care and now here i am and now i feel like i am letting loose if i don’t do my dishes immediately and now my version of being a little wild is leaving them for the morning and oh my god i can’t look at that and not clean it and oh my god i didn’t do my assignment three days in advance and left it for the day of and what happened i wanted to read everyday and this and that. where the fuck did this come from who the fuck is this?
every action calculated every aciton calculated i don’t want to do anything anymore i don’t want to achieve i want to do nothing and be creative and silly and childlike and oh my god is this where the rest of the world is right now too and oh my god can i help and oh my god why don’t we run away from it all and start fresh in the forest and oh my god people who think like that are delusional and oh my god i need to think about my taxes and oh my god that’s unsexy and oh my godmygodmygodmygod can i move away is there another country where they’re happier and oh my god i haven’t traveled much and i’m 23 and oh my god my cats need love and oh my god all i want is love and oh my god why am i looking for a partner to feel fulfilled that’s just a distraction there’s so much living to do so much to see and oh my god maybe i’m happy with what’s simple and oh my god i need a rich and vivid life
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 