November 25, 2012. No comments.
I might be daft or determined. Full of poetic whimsy – or reduced to a limited collection of swear words.
I might feel desperately out of place or quite effortlessly right at home.
I might blurt out some unhelpful truth, or fail to say what I really mean.
I might be stuck in the pot holes of the soul only to find myself soaring with surprise on some unintended night and landing upon some more unexpectedly sweet days.
I might suddenly cook a rather good meal without any fuss.
Or ballroom dance without knowing how.
I might dream night after night of someone who never asked to be in my dreams, only to find I had unwittingly wondered into theirs.
I might find people to be much older than I thought they were, or much younger than they seem. I might suddenly collapse into hysterical laughter and be unable to speak for quite some time.
I might not be able to tell you how I am, truthfully, or what is going on, because perhaps I don’t know. I might not even be able to recall what it is I have been doing lately – let alone whether you would want to hear about it if I did.
I might be steadily carving my way through mud or watching it all unfold beautifully around me.
I might be pulled to the four corners of the country, or hibernate in my home for days.
I might sink into remembering what it is about autumn I love so much.
I might trust people who don’t deserve it, and forget people who deserve my remembering.
I might be wise enough to let it go (and then let it go – again)
I might see things and sense things that other people want to hide away.
I might miss the point entirely and find it hits me when the moment has well and truly passed.
I might create a world around a fleeting moment that none ever gets to hear or see.
Still, on the whole, I am getting used to being me.