September 29, 2017
The beauty of not wanting to necessarily be in the midst of the struggle was that I didn’t have to make a choice; I didn’t have to indefinitely take up space in one room for any specific amount of time; I no longer felt an obligation to commit or decide. There was enough me in the world that knew beyond a doubt that I inherently belonged to myself more than any other person or thing or place.
This sort of safety net was a welcoming. A return. A revival of sorts. A place of rest and solitude and freedom. It was similar to cheating the system. Playing against the rules. Not following or abiding by or answering to. Trusting my intuition was challenging, and that in and of itself should’ve been enough of a clue to sway me away from anyone and everyone who wanted something from me that I wasn’t able to give. I found myself sitting across the table, looking at nothing and everything and feeling nothing and everything and my belly was full and my heart wasn’t tense or stretched or being wrung dry. It was what it was.
It was beautiful. It is beautiful. It’s everything and nothing because it’s my reflection and it’s clear and unapologetic. It’s pure and full of morning drowsiness and unkept hair. It plays out like words splattered across the page; peace dripping from my fingertips.
There’s no more pressure or influence or expectations or hesitation. In those hollow spaces, where there used to be anxiousness, there’s everything and nothing. There’s me.