2010-05-03
empty promises
There are moments when I see a glimmer of what I can become. I see myself voraciously reading interesting books and thinking interesting thoughts and having interesting conversations with interesting people and surprising them with some secret unexpected talent or side of me that wows them and makes me feel like a well-rounded human who isn't predictable, who's multifaceted. Someone who isn't just this way or that, a dialectical synthesis within myself.
Instead, I am a writer and a poet who never composes, a tree climber who hasn't swung upon some branches in ages. I don't read, I restlessly skim. I draft letters in my mind, with things I yearn to share with someone particular, letters that I never take the time to write down and send. There are lots of promises within me, enveloped in a deep swell of vitality, but they dissolve before they reach the tip of my tongue, dispersing into a whisper that I'll never utter. I watch the sky, I watch it a lot, but I'm out of practice for how to articulate all that I see.
I know I will never actualize the person that I want be unless I work at it. Identity can take effort; that does not detract from its sincerity. In fact, it can probably be particularly authentic, if the desire is manifested as a will, as a driving force from within.
I feel a bit numb, like I could sit here and try to explain it, but I don't know how far I'll get. Unfulfilled promises to myself, ones I never formed into words, but still held within me, and never made came true, as if I could keep such a secret from myself, as if I wouldn't find out.
Confucius say, everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it. I want this vision. I will look; I want to see.
leesah-likes at 11:31 p.m.