In the past, I’ve been asked several times about why I have the need to write on an online “blog” when I have the intimacy and understanding of those who really love and care for me. Why is it then, when I have attentive ears and open hearts, would I ever need the attention of online readers — people who I’ve never met, whose souls may be a galaxy away from mine? The truth is that I need it for myself — for my own personal understanding. There may be the excuses that I could simply write in my own paper journal, or that I don’t need to write my heart out and publish it to a void in which any and all may see. In reality, I don’t write for any of you, though one or none of you may find it entertaining. I write with the simple hope that my writing releases the tension, the frustrations of life that I seem to embrace but cannot yet let go — like picking a dandelion at the park but not being able to leave it behind because you’ve plucked the precious flower and ceased its growth, much like the memories that can no longer be indulged and the regret that it had to come to an end.
If you’ve ever met a friend who cannot stop apologizing without an apology — I am one of those. I am one of those who dwells on things until satisfied, analyzing and re-analyzing all the tiny bits and marveling at it until I feel that I know all that I am supposed to know about it. I’m one of those who walks into a store and walks up and down every aisle until the store has been completely covered, even with mere glances, I feel incomplete if I don’t make it from the bakery to the produce section, weaving my way through the shelves. I am one of those who speaks endlessly, always seeking to sum up a story in its entirety with wholesome words, yet always falling to an addition of a million ands.
In reality, I write down all my thoughts in such a way that I feel less anxious and nervous that I do feel, that to this void I find myself being accepted, and not subjected to an active audience who can judge me. It’s silly. I don’t like to be judged — who does? At least in my little space here, someone can object to what I say, and simply not say anything. It’s less likely I’ll notice. It’s worth it when it comes to learning that you can love yourself, though this is not the solution, it is one step. I find it hard to speak to those who supposedly care about me most; most of the time I want to ravel myself in the minutiae of life and it’s delicacies, pondering the wrinkles that are forming on my face, while I believe that I should not waste the time of others.
It’s hard for me. When I want to share my heart, I want to share the whole thing, there is no such thing as “a little bit at a time” when it comes to it. Sometimes I can be overwhelming. I’ve always felt held back. In a way this is justification — I write because it’s therapeutic. I don’t care if I get comments or an audience, as long as I get to bring to light all the thoughts I find important, each moment I savored during another bright day, or every laugh I released into the world, then I’m alright. That’s all I need to get by.
Life is amazing, through the good times and especially through the bad. I don’t need to go into too much detail about my life and the changes I’ve gone through the past few weeks to be able to experience it as it should.
Among other things, these will be part of my summer:
Sunny days at the park down the street, following behind this amazing retro red radio flyer tricycle …
Which, as you can see, even has the cool little bell that you can ring, one that sounds even as you ride your way across the little sidewalks among the charming, quaint neighborhood that you discover nestled close in between canyons. It’s the sort of neighborhood I’ve always dreamed I’d live in, where the neighbors are on a first name basis, who bring you a cup of sugar and show you true hospitality. The kind of place where you are short walking distance from a slew of tiny little shops with hand painted signs and rustic little tables outside for you to sip your cappuccinos, where ice cream shop owners give you an extra scoop free of charge for coming out to see them.
It’s the kind of place where you walk by and you always see something interesting going on, never a dull moment even if all the noise you hear is the rustling of leaves from the gentle wind or an SUV blowing through the streets and making their way to downtown. You stop and you stare at the well tended gardens proudly displayed in front of homes that have received a whole lot of TLC, those which show their gratitude in their bright colors, adding to the amazement of life.
It’s all I could do to restrain myself and sit down by a tree at the park and write, write, and write until the pen runs dry and the pages have been scribbled all over. I do carry around a trusty pink moleskine for occasions such as these, but today brought no time for self-reflection under shade from the bright glaring sun. Instead, there was tree climbing, rock hopping, and swing pushing in store.
What’s great, though, is that at the end of the day you know you have to go back, so you trek your way through the streets, looking both ways before you cross, smiling and saying hi to strangers who are enjoying the day just as much as you are, and making it home to a familiar place that welcomes you back, begs you to inhabit it because that is where you belong and without it, it’d just be a place with no history, no memories, no warmth.
I fell in love with this place today. I don’t know what it is about it, but I am completely enamored with everything by it. I want to absorb myself into it, resting my eyes so that when I woke up — dreaming or not — this place would still be there.
