Reality

Kinda weird to come back down. Or maybe just over, back into the niche that I seem to fill oh-so-much better. Which, admittedly, is frustrating on a few different levels, but mostly just in the fact that, subconsciously, I myself seem to be the biggest advocate for this role - probably to preserve the sense of security (however false) it provides. But playing it safe isn't always a good thing, especially when the concept of safety is so tipsy anyway. I am okay with where I am now, though I don't think it's a particularly eternal state of being.

I don't really know what to call the emotion I've been so taken with of late. Contentment originated in one far deep spot, and sort of permeated the rest of my life. I think I've kind of lost sight of the starting point, but somehow I'm not sad. Dead poets speak with tongues of lovers, and the soft vibrations of steel strings over a hollow body warm my belly.

There was an excitement - which was fun - an anxiety - which served as a reminder that I can still feel wholly - and now a calm - which is good for what it is and what I guess I need it to be.

It's painfully hard, though, for me to come to terms with the concept that the method of connecting with people isn't something that I'm going to discover by burrowing further into myself. Up until now, that seemed like a perfectly viable coping strategy; When the fragile, fragile people all around are so close to breaking, it's easy to duck down behind a barricade of consciousness and give them exactly what they ask for, nothing more or less. But what happens when what they ask for has been with you so long, it's almost a part of you? What happens when they ask you to tear down the wall?

I'm struck a little bit by the irony that I was conceived on November 9th.

Also, I take some twisted comfort in knowing that Pink Floyd understands.

I suppose it has to come down sometime, huh?