In a year I’ve learned many things. Some very profound, but most of my learnings have been either very ordinary, or have already been forgotten. I still find myself unimproved compared to last year in the way of habits and routine, two aspect of the structured lifestyle that has sparkles fancifully in my mind for as long as I can remember. I would have hoped to find myself more accomplished in the way of education, too. My apathy toward reading my very well be the greatest agent working against my effort to become the girl I long to be; one smart, good with words, and possibly a mind blessed with a deeper comprehension for things. Along with my behavior of neglect toward my books, I have also allow my instruments to continue their dormancy, all the while mounds of dust make their homes on my violin stings and tuning pegs. If I myself were one of my own musical possessions, I’m embarrassed to admit, though confident in saying that, I would most certainly be the wolds most injured soul, scarred by the stinging pain of depression due to utter and most outrageous element of neglect in my life. Though they can’t possibly blame me ( my instruments, that is). They’ve been around watching me this year; they’ve observed the chaos and anxiety that have literally been the daily fuel for my rugged body. Day by day I wake to the sun blaring in my eyes, screaming at me “Skylar! You’ve slept in again! Get up!”. Then of course immediately to follow after my startling interruption from slumber is a frantic race around my house stumbling through a maze of drawers and stairs, vitamin bottles, and refrigerator doors. My thoughts at this point often transpire like this; ” I’ll catch up on sleep during lunch, then do my best to be in bed by 10:30 tonight”. I am comforted by this thought for the time being and there for permit myself to continue on franticly rushing to get out of the house. (Of course you know that my daytime never allows a nap, and I still can’t remember the last time I want to bed before 12:00). Now the morning fuzz is beginning to ware off, I’m about three quarters of the way to work, and then once I arrive, I can expect the workday to greet me with a cold, sharp, marvelous slap in the face (for not getting enough sleep). To add to the ringing in my head now the impatient phones chime in calling me, demanding my attention, clients who like me are in a blaze of a hurry, and can’t seem to separate themselves from their own rush to notice that it is impossible for me to meet their needs as immediately as they assumed. And then it hits me; I left my lunch on the counter. By the time I get home way later in the evening (often seen thirty or so) I am emotionally disconnected; certainly from my family, and most days from myself as well. The computer my tempt me, and so I’ll resign to wasting a few hours dabbling here and there, buying things I know won’t fill the gaping hole in my heart, but maybe it will fill it up for a little while while I try and look for another remedy. The clock ticks, the cat meows, I’m suddenly reminded of all of the tasks I left unfinished, and so I make a list of what I need to do the next day. Sometimes I’ll have a whim to write a post or maybe even a song or something. Sometimes I’ll be writing and my mind is flooded with words and melodies; so many that most of them get lost in translation and float away to land on some other hungry poet’s mind, one who can properly care and nourish the thought. Oh, contrary to what it sounds like, nothing above that I have written comes from a ungrateful heart. I am exceedingly grateful to have acquired my fortune and to be blessed with my circumstances. I have all of my physical needs met. Indeed I could not want anything more, no matter how hard I would try to want, I really just couldn’t. Its inside that I’m in want. My heart needs some care to mend this gash of disappointment that reality so cruelly contributed. As a small child, I colored my future with vibrant, romantic aspirations. Coupled with my bright imagination and beating heart for adventure, I literally expected these years, 18+, to be the years of glory. The years of triumph and tranquility. The first eighteen years were supposed to be the refining years. The building years. Spoken form a perspective that one cannot never stop learning, these very young years were supposed to be the core learning years. How stray my romanticism has led me! How lost I feel in this huge world ahead. How so many things I am ignorant of; so many lessons I’ve learned (and still have to learn). How deeply, gravely, disappointed I am with reality. I’ve been holding it together very superficially for the past few years, letting a tiny flicker of hope fuel my longing to believe that soon my adventure will come. I am rather far past the breaking point now, and quite ready to shatter. To shatter would mean that I am letting go of all that I so childishly hoped for and start to trust that I am only so stingingly dissatisfied now merely because I have hoped for too little; so little that had I gotten what I wanted, my heart would still be only half full. I have to trust that God sees my emptiness and that He knows how to fill it exactly. He knows how to pour so much goodness in my heart that I have enough to overflow into the lives of others. I have to trust that He knows better than me. I must resign from my thrown and lay my heavy crown at His feet. My flesh is juvenile; the conflict of war in peace with in me is like a tiny little girl trying to conduct the fleeting assurance of happiness, only, more times than not, she chases the wind with the weight of gold pounding on her tender head with each step away from trust. I do feel passive simply repeating these words I’ve heard my whole life: ” …plans for good and not fro evil; to give you future and a hope.”. If I learn anything in this lifetime, I would love to refine the idea of trust and try and separate it from my common interpretation (which is the word passive ).
All in all, there are always things I can do to improve my happiness (the temporary, fleeting essence of joy). I have goals that, I admit, have been neglected and if they were full filled, maybe a sense of accomplishment would be good. I will not try to blame anyone or anything on my current state of apathy. We all have our ups and downs, right? I have questions that I’d love answers to. Direction would be nice. Maybe a pinch of inspiration? I am a creative, artistic, (dare I say) free spirited person. I’m only injured, but will recover. I am not depressed, but I am not exuberant about anything. I would describe myself a perfect apathetic. I know this state of emotional despair is both necessary and temporary. I might as well say enjoy it while you can. Solitude is the secret agent to the well being of a melancholy’s soul.
So, on that note, I bid you world good night. Thank you for listening to me express my thoughts. The battle between my heart and reality is alive and raging as ever. I consider it a necessary trail that once conquered will allow my elaborate dreams and hope for this life to become ever brighter and ever fuller.
A new dawn; a beacon of hope for the future to come.