2009 is not at all what I wanted it to be, and it's only April. My fears and insecurities multiply, my confidence has crashed into the mountain, and I'm left grasping at straws like I used to frantically search the apartment for the missing medicine bottle with one last dose of magic inside. I know I'm better off, a better person, better this, better that...whatever. The measuring stick by which I calculate success is so simple, yet so unbelievably hard for me to live up to. Unloveable. That's what it comes down to. Am I?
I'm starting to think that if you plugged my battery in anywhere else, another city, another country, I'd instantly find what I was looking for. But my bull-headed resistance (to this point) to change my location, for fear that my identity would flee me just as quickly as I'd flown from Baton Rouge, has prevented me from finding my one missing happiness. I can't see why everyone else can be happy here and I can't, but it may just be the case.
Or, horror of horrors, I leave and find that it is me, something implicit to myself that prevents me from getting any real joy from life no matter where I call home. What would I do then? Paralysis. Hamlet, anyone?
Why do I even think like this? I mean, everybody tells me how great I have it, etc. Why can't I feel it at all? I wish there was something simple that I was missing, something that I could pick up all of a sudden and see what everybody is talking about. If such a thing exists, and you know about it, please let me in. The joke is seriously not funny anymore. It wasn't funny in sixth grade, and it's not funny now. It gets more bitter and confounding with age.
Remind me about this post, when I'm old and happy with my family around me and reflecting on how wonderful my life was. Remind me of the crossroads, and the path I took, and all the good it did me. Don't let me forget.
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