Basically, little one, none of my words are adequate. Maybe they never will be. I am worn to apathy once again. This week has been a different sort of supernova and collapse.
A little bit dead-eyed behind my windows, and artificial pats on the back saying it'll be okay, I am okay, but really no. Still, I suppose it could be worse. But that does not mean my current feelings are rendered insignificant next to all the other pain in the world, relatable or not to my situation.
I am attempting to ground myself better, to stop dancing around everything and plant my feet and steady my gaze. Perhaps I will be successful in my efforts, perhaps not. The only thing I can count on is nothing will ever stay the same, not even for a minute at a time. I will always miss homeschool group, being in plays, having the friends I did back then. I will always miss scholar class. Perhaps I will find something similar to or better than everything swept away in the passage of time, but I won't count on it.
For all of my life I've felt like nothing was permanent, either beginnings or endings. Nothing would stay the same, and on the other hand, nothing was permanently lost. Things had a habit of returning to me; a necklace I'd made with my mom, lost, then found two years later in the pocket of my overalls. A hand-made tiara essential (I felt) to a minor princess character costume for a play, found two days before the performance. A black comb I bought at a fourth of July celebration, lost and found and lost again. (currently lost, but I hold to the stubborn belief that I will find it once more.)
I suppose it was my hope that the right words at the right time in the right shape could repair anything. I suppose that's been my experience growing up as I have with the family I am a part of. Naive homeschooler... How very much I am learning this year that the world is not what I want it to be. I guess that's good, or something. But not really, because it seems like the world wears tender souls down.
The clearest my voice will ever be is in writing, as much as I hold back from that when I feel my voice lacking. A slanting sort of truth and all that... Still, I am not the only one to ask the questions I have asked. As unique as we little snowflakes are, fragile too, we are all made of the same stuff. Perhaps this makes my words inadequate, or maybe this makes them inevitable.
A little bit dead-eyed behind my windows, and artificial pats on the back saying it'll be okay, I am okay, but really no. Still, I suppose it could be worse. But that does not mean my current feelings are rendered insignificant next to all the other pain in the world, relatable or not to my situation.
I am attempting to ground myself better, to stop dancing around everything and plant my feet and steady my gaze. Perhaps I will be successful in my efforts, perhaps not. The only thing I can count on is nothing will ever stay the same, not even for a minute at a time. I will always miss homeschool group, being in plays, having the friends I did back then. I will always miss scholar class. Perhaps I will find something similar to or better than everything swept away in the passage of time, but I won't count on it.
For all of my life I've felt like nothing was permanent, either beginnings or endings. Nothing would stay the same, and on the other hand, nothing was permanently lost. Things had a habit of returning to me; a necklace I'd made with my mom, lost, then found two years later in the pocket of my overalls. A hand-made tiara essential (I felt) to a minor princess character costume for a play, found two days before the performance. A black comb I bought at a fourth of July celebration, lost and found and lost again. (currently lost, but I hold to the stubborn belief that I will find it once more.)
I suppose it was my hope that the right words at the right time in the right shape could repair anything. I suppose that's been my experience growing up as I have with the family I am a part of. Naive homeschooler... How very much I am learning this year that the world is not what I want it to be. I guess that's good, or something. But not really, because it seems like the world wears tender souls down.
The clearest my voice will ever be is in writing, as much as I hold back from that when I feel my voice lacking. A slanting sort of truth and all that... Still, I am not the only one to ask the questions I have asked. As unique as we little snowflakes are, fragile too, we are all made of the same stuff. Perhaps this makes my words inadequate, or maybe this makes them inevitable.
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