I've been thinking about being silent lately. About not speaking, for a week or a month or a year. For however long it takes to silence the cacophony in my mind.
It's not that I don't like the noise. I actually really love the busyness inside my own head, the stories I am constantly telling myself. It's just that they have gotten jumbled and out of hand these days. Some of these stories are getting older, I'm forgetting beginnings and not allowing for endings. My head feels like a spice cabinet crafted by an overzealous yet lazy cook who, with the best of intentions, bought every ingredient ever known to man in order to craft the most amazing dishes, and then shoved everything but the garlic powder and italian seasoning to the back of the cabinet. Too many of my words are moldering in the darkness back there, sealed into air tight containers, but loosing all their zest and flavor.
I think silence would be a refreshing spring cleaning, a bringing out into the light all those words that aren't really viable anymore, and an opportunity to rethink what words and ideas truly inspire me.
I'm sitting ensconced in my comfy chair. I had to fight a cat for it. It's in the corner of my room, with a door to the outside on my right. It's raining out, and darker than it should be at almost 8am. I love this chair. It's maroon, and cushy, almost unctuous in its opulence. It's my work and writing chair. Not very good for my concentration, or my posture. But wonderful for my sense of being enveloped in comfort.
I'm thinking about how I feel about going to visit my family in New England. I got a mental image of the look on my mothers face when she sees I am still fat. She hopes, every time she sees me, that I will have gotten skinny in the interim. It's not an ugly hope, not a cruel one, at least not a cruelty focused on me. She just hates being heavy, hates being what she considers fat, and does not want that for me. The cruelty is in her inability to see beauty on her own skin, and therefore her fear of not finding me beautiful. I've never actually thought that she doesn't find me amazing, but I think she fears she won't.
I can not IMAGINE having children, all those fears for myself that I wouldn't be able to help but put on them.
I miss my niece and nephew, my brother and sister in law, and my sister. I miss my parents, but I talk to them often. I mostly miss the family I don't keep enough of a connection with. Having Christopher here, having a relationship with his daughter that is quintessentially Auntie, makes me miss the rest of my family more.
It's not that I don't like the noise. I actually really love the busyness inside my own head, the stories I am constantly telling myself. It's just that they have gotten jumbled and out of hand these days. Some of these stories are getting older, I'm forgetting beginnings and not allowing for endings. My head feels like a spice cabinet crafted by an overzealous yet lazy cook who, with the best of intentions, bought every ingredient ever known to man in order to craft the most amazing dishes, and then shoved everything but the garlic powder and italian seasoning to the back of the cabinet. Too many of my words are moldering in the darkness back there, sealed into air tight containers, but loosing all their zest and flavor.
I think silence would be a refreshing spring cleaning, a bringing out into the light all those words that aren't really viable anymore, and an opportunity to rethink what words and ideas truly inspire me.
I'm sitting ensconced in my comfy chair. I had to fight a cat for it. It's in the corner of my room, with a door to the outside on my right. It's raining out, and darker than it should be at almost 8am. I love this chair. It's maroon, and cushy, almost unctuous in its opulence. It's my work and writing chair. Not very good for my concentration, or my posture. But wonderful for my sense of being enveloped in comfort.
I'm thinking about how I feel about going to visit my family in New England. I got a mental image of the look on my mothers face when she sees I am still fat. She hopes, every time she sees me, that I will have gotten skinny in the interim. It's not an ugly hope, not a cruel one, at least not a cruelty focused on me. She just hates being heavy, hates being what she considers fat, and does not want that for me. The cruelty is in her inability to see beauty on her own skin, and therefore her fear of not finding me beautiful. I've never actually thought that she doesn't find me amazing, but I think she fears she won't.
I can not IMAGINE having children, all those fears for myself that I wouldn't be able to help but put on them.
I miss my niece and nephew, my brother and sister in law, and my sister. I miss my parents, but I talk to them often. I mostly miss the family I don't keep enough of a connection with. Having Christopher here, having a relationship with his daughter that is quintessentially Auntie, makes me miss the rest of my family more.
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