Here is a spontaneous writing I later called Meaning, written when I was missing two of my best friends from Portland. Written down on November 11, 2012
Maybe today is the day that I will figure out why I am here now.
I used to know.
It was to get better and dance in the sun with someone I loved.
Now I am better, but it's like I'm watching everyone else do the dancing., Living, breathing, being being happy, being successful, being fulfilled, being loved.
I am the little child with no money looking through the toy store window at Christmas. Don't I deserve those things too?
I still see people that I love, and hear the words I love you; but I wonder what is broken in me that I can't feel it when they don't say it.
I used to feel it all around, like an old song.
Now I am cold, but sweating, and I can't sleep. The pain will come when I lay down. Am I an old lady already?
What I wish for right now doesn't seem too much to ask to me. Someone, anyone who cares, to hold me, really hold me, until my spirit bursts out of me, touching them and everyone with the little firework drops. And then keep holding me while my spirit centers again at the same time I am reminded that my body matters, no matter how broken it is.
I try to remember how this feels. The hands of Jax, the voice of Amy, sitting right next to the speakers, letting the music carry me away before the first one reminds me to come back and dance, that I am perfectly capable of moving both the music and my body by myself.
And writing this, I do remember, but I would like to be more than inside my memories sometimes.
I guess I'm here to figure out how that will work. I spend too much time inside my head as it is.
I want to be someone who will make a difference all around me.
Someone who might someday be loved effortlessly in spite of the effort it takes sometimes to share my life.
The good thing about the music that you love, or the voices you remember, is that they get stuck in your head.
And the music drowns out everything. Everything but what is true.
I'm not good enough. I'm not pretty. I can't stretch my arms that far. No one wants to hear my voice.
If I try to say that to my good friends, they will pretend they can't hear me and keep on singing and dancing until I remember why I am here.
I think maybe sometimes I'm here to give something deep to people. Sometimes I'm here to try to receive.
And sometimes I'm here to just shut up and dance.