I have no coffee. And my eyes are too uncoordinated at this hour to spin them around. But, I do have this dark morning, the radio and the hum of my laptop, coaxing my thoughts out.
It always seems to have been a while with this. I don't know what happened first, my waning lack of talent for transforming my murky thoughts onto this screen, the inability to see beauty in every day life, low supply of words and/or energy....
I started writing when I was smaller because worlds opened up to me. My imagination was as smooth flowing as the calmest river, and the words floated off the page. I would write and write, about my day, inventions, thoughts on the world- anything and everything. As time goes on, interests change and I find myself searching for that girl of yesterday.
Oddly notice how each of these paragraphs begin with "I"- or the letter, anyway. I hate that. Since when did this become all about me? Where did my passion- my ability to write about the outside life, die? I do realize that this is mine, and I can do with it whatever pleases me, but I was under the impression that Catherine, me, wasn't all about herself. The reason I am who I am today is because of things outside of my mind, too. When did all that leave the picture?
The roar of trucks across the highway brings me back from my look over my laptop, and into the dark silhouette of my room. Even my room isn't mine, but filled with boxes of odds and ends from the garage, clothes of others, and odd furniture. As I struggle to claim something as mine, I find that here- here is something.
You are mine. And I am yours.
Once posed the question of whether or not I am but a shadow of my former self. A good friend replied, no, I am not the shadow of my former self but an updated version. I a mcoming to understand and appreciate that in different ways, at different rates. I struggle with holding on to pieces of me I don't want to be updated, and fight to change pieces of me I less than like.
True
