I’m stalling in the place between poetic prose and silence.
Quiet, slightly intimidated by everyday life and the prospect of accountability, routine.
I wither there, I think.
Or do I?
I don’t really know anymore.
Some semblance of routine has proven fruitful.
I feel insecure here, sure the anvil waits, resting precariously on an invisible shelf.
Not above my head but above my hopes, if I don’t swoop them up fast.
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.
I’ve swooped up many a premature dream, only to come away with a learning experience and a handful of ashes.
Waiting hurts. In the space that must open, a garden of awareness blooms.
Lessons to carry forward.
I will need to possess certain skills, definite strengths, or risk another crumbling skeleton of potential.
Or do I bring success up short lest I become visible when dreams become reality.
For a year I’ve been seen.
A child wearing mom’s clothes, hoping the world will only notice my big girl smile.
These thoughts are not wrapped in a neat package, coming to a definite conclusion.
More like floating.
I am not unhappy, quite the opposite, nor as fragile as I was even twelve months ago.
Still, I tread carefully, allowing tears of gratitude and letting go of yesterday mix behind my eyes.
Living a dream feels like I used to imagine running through prairie grasses would, if I could be flying just like the girl in a yellow dress, music accompanying her stride, the whole field bathed in sunlight.
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You’ve nailed this feeling and its perils/joys. Each new skill gained is a foundation for doing something more complex and a little better, a little more confidently. But that niggling feeling of added responsibility to “get a move on” comes with it.
Not only is your writing clear and descriptive, but it expands important parts of life!
Thanks!