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Shaping them to Shape me


As my fingers rest on this keyboard, I realize that I am at a loss for new words. Sometimes it feels like my brain has turned into a 1,000 piece puzzle, and I have analyzed every single puzzle piece. But no matter how much analyzing I do, I still can’t get it to line up. 

Sometimes though, I realize that maybe it is only 998 pieces, and there will always be a couple that fell behind the couch or under the coffee table. The two missing pieces being the stories of others that will never be solved by me. 

Here is to a new year. A new life, and a new way. To be completely honest though, this healing process is far more challenging than I thought. Hard in the way that makes you sit and wonder what could have been, what would have been, and what is. And instead of slipping and falling I stay standing - sometimes stagnant. 

I want the two missing pieces to fit perfectly into my own story for it to make sense. But that involves changing their shape and fixing what is wrong to make it right. Sometimes I think that if I make everything else align, then I will too. I found my own purpose for a while, and that was to help people. But at the end of the day, was I helping them, or was I fixing them? Fixing them so my pain started to make sense. Fixing them so I didn’t have to fix myself. But if I were to be honest with myself, I still believe the sickest version of myself was superior to the rest. And I really, really miss it. 

I become angry when I think about the contradictions of life. I want to live life, but sometimes it seems too hard. It taught me to hate myself, but it taught me to love myself.  I am wise beyond my years, but have fallen behind my peers. I want to love, but instead I run. But I suppose that is not the way to look at it, so I am told. I want to live life, and sometimes it seemstoo hard. It taught me to hate myself, and it taught me to love myself. I am wise beyond my years, and have fallen behind my peers. I want to love, and instead I run. 

Along with contradiction comes doubt. The “what if” and the “just in case” effect takes the driver's seat in the case of any contradictions. Not now, but later. Stashing and storing the necessities that I refuse to give up. The necessities that give me hope, but not safety. Pilled pink tights, and 18 years compiled into one drawer. For what? Maybe a second chance. College ruled notebooks, occupied by something called hope, and confusion. Stacked and stowed to the left of me. For what? Proof. Mixed in with old bottles of shampoo, extra strength acetaminophen,  and a 100 pack of cotton balls - each one counts. For what? Internal safety, but external chaos. 

Not only do I stash and store objects, but the same goes for emotions. Wrapped up and stored in a nice neat box along the top shelf of my closet, is a nice neat moral compass. That's a pretty awesome thing to have, until it stops you from living life. What if human experiences become pushed down in order to stay pure? As far as I know, morals and desires are two separate things. Outlined in my mind is a rule book. No brain altering chemicals, no profanity, no unnatural changes to one's self, and no giving into a desire. And no, don’t even think about it. In order to stay pure, you have to wash off sin, and become clean. Wash it off, before the thought soaks in. Because once they soak in they are true, and I clearly have no morals, right? 

The thing is, though, is that I can have morals and desires at the same time. So sitting right next to my moral compass box is a box filled with love. I feel it not in the past, not in the future, but only in the present. It is the heat a flame gives off in a dark room. Where the sparks fly, then fall right back down into the soft melted wax. It is their face when they see you, and the arms that wrap around you without a second thought given. It is the laugh I have that just keeps going when they are around. It’s the look they give you when you sing a little off key. And instead ofcommenting, choose to sing along. It is a fake stage like acting, that is really pretty real if you ask me. It is the anxiety that shakes me, but I come to find out it is more like butterflies. 

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