leather-bound journal

I had this thought, along the realms of… “who would I be if I wasn’t so scared to be myself?” Even though I feel like I’m being more like me, I know that the person who exists inside my journal or talks to me nonstop all day inside my head is nothing like the one here, or in person, or in millions of other situations.

So, then, going along with my massive list of non-prioritized priorities: which one am I, and does it actually matter? If I put this much..stock? into opinions? What if everyone thinks I am the worst mom ever or I’m batshit insane, does it actually matter? I honestly am starting to wonder how many things I think are important that genuinely, truly, are only important because someone else told me it is. I don’t know. It just seems like, if I believe what Jung told me about myself: what I admire about other people are attributes that I myself have but have dissasociated from, and now I project them to other people and admire them, wishing I had it. (The opposite is usually referenced with projection, where my crappy traits are the things I complain about in others, but it works both ways)

So, if I’m always babbling about people I find so confident, themselves, comfortable in their own skin, wise, cool, sexy, whatever – does that actually mean all of that is true for me, if I channel my inner, rejected/repressed/disassociated Michael Buble ala Polar Express and ……just….believe???

I don’t know, but this line of reasoning led to writing, and writing tends to lead me rhyme which tends to be my reason.

Here’s a poem, and the two songs I’m currently hooked on.

leather-bound journal

When I die, I want my life to be a journal

I don’t want to leave a pretty corpse

I want my leather wrinkled torn

 

I want the pages in between

Stained with bloodshed hopes and dreams

I want the tears to fall naturally

into the pages so rapidly

The ink that I am fills all of me

Where there’s no difference in what I see

that I’m just honest inherently

Minutes and moments eternally

Maybe this madness

lets me live coherently

Where the beginning has ended

and I can be

 

okay in the moment between the skin

where the ink that I am isn’t hidden

But the pages are open & I’m listenin’

 

Because most of my moments

I’ve been wasting

trying to improve the appearance of my pages

Hoping that someone will save me

Whining about all the things that made me

Erasing the things that time won’t erase for me

Wishing anyone hears the things I’m not saying

Because there’s a universe in the ink of me

 

But I’m lookin’ at my leather hyde

Disdainfully

Is there any better way to die

than not accepting yourself

Unconditionally?

Focusing on old pages written so

Painfully

Hoping something changes if

I write these pages

Gratefully

 

So the corpse I’m becoming dies

Peacefully

And in every moment, can I just be

Leather-bound pages of a life

Experienced

Fully

by

Me

 

 

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