Girl 27

My palms are sweaty.  I sit here with sweaty palms.  I find myself a bit nervous...no...perhaps a bit...undefined?  Okay.  Undefined.  (Perhaps a bit unrefined, as well.)  Sometimes I love the beauty, angst, the flow of words.  And sometimes I feel they cheapen an experience or state of being, never quite being able to give proper credit to what is now.  That's why I think I love theatre so much.  It is a look, a voice, words, a picture.  It is raw.  Sometimes it's a facade...yet-you can still see what is underneath.  There's always an underneath.  You can never fully be who you are portraying...you are always somewhere underneath.  I don't think I've even come close to being.  I have acted, and I have reacted until it hurts.  I want to find someone until the underneath is blurred, and that person becomes part of the underneath forever.  I want to take the pieces and spread them out on the floor and begin to piece it together bit by bit.  I want to be a story, and not just tell it.  I suppose I don't want to ever fully be someone else's story, though.  It is not mine to be.  It belongs to someone else, doesn't it?  And I would want it to remain theirs...I would not want to cheapen their story because my ability can only take it so far. 

Who do I think I am?

Suddenly I feel very inadequate and selfish.  Who am I to think I should get on that stage and tell someone else's story?  I can't help it, though.  There's something within me that fights, stirs, does not rest...what do they call that?  Insatiable?  My insatiable appetite to be.  That sounds nice and dramatic. 

I am absurd.  Trouble is, I don't know how else to be.  No matter who I try to be, the underneath is always there.  The strangest part?  I like the underneath.  I like the raw, the ugly, the deep calm, joy at its truest form.  I like me at my truest form.  

I started this blog because I did not want my previous post to be the first thing someone saw if they chose to read my story.  When I find myself in a moment to write such babble as the previous post, it is just that, a moment, and then it's gone.  Such stuff.  People will draw their conclusions, I suppose.  Or, perhaps, people do not think about me as much as I would like to think they do.  We're all a bit too busy thinking about ourselves, yet we still manage to draw conclusions about others, don't we? 

I wish I were brave. 

I want to be brave.

You see?  A picnic planned today with old friends.  My heart and mind know there is some place I need to be, so they decide to trick me into contemplative melancholy.  A few years ago I might have succumbed and spent the day locked away in a tower of pretension...or perhaps I would just be still.   I am beginning to understand that sometimes (only sometimes) I would use those opportunities as an escape from the responsibilities of being social.  It is so much easier to sit in a tower than it is to plaster a smile on the ugly for a day, or have to constantly tell people that nothing is wrong...you just feel...content being calm.  Now, however, I have opened up enough to realize that I am not alone in the underneath...we all have it.  I can write for a piece, throw my hair into a ponytail, grab my flip flops, jump into my jeep, and use the ride over to find who I am today...no more plaster...the sticky-tape doesn't work well in the humidity anyway.  I choose to climb down from the tower and spend time today with people who bring me so much joy, and peace, and make me laugh until my face hurts.  

I never thought my story would have so many delightful encounters...