"I know you're not perfect, but I think you're great anyway."
And all day, feelings have been rising from their roots and growing again, and I don't know if it's some phantom limb or the actual thing, but it feels more real to me than it has in months. In months. I go and all of sudden the words start buzzing like a hummingbird's wings, incomprehensible but still there, still so solidly there and I can't ignore them. It's like those chocolates, that sat on my shelf for months, for months, and I just looked at them every day and couldn't do a blessed thing about them because what does one do with a present someone gave to you before you rocked their world? What does one do with those feelings after you tell yourself to stop feeling them?
I suppose it goes without saying, but no matter what I say, I am still me, and no matter what you do, you are still you, and no matter what we pretend, we are still us and we will always be us. We can't change that. I can't change that. I don't know how to change that and I don't want to change that. We'll always be this in between and we'll always be more than nothing but less than something, in all sense of the phrase. You will always be you and I will always be me and because of that, we will always be us.
I just don't know how to live like I'm dying, I don't know how to live like I'm living, either. I don't even know what that means. Right now I'm living and some day I won't be. Can't I live like I'm immortal because in this moment I am and forever will be? Can't we live in our moments? Do we always have to live for the next one? If you keep living for your next moment, at some point, you're living for something that doesn't even exist, aren't you? Where am I going with this? Where are we going with us? Where is He going with me?
I don't mean to be rude, but what do you do and why do you do it? What will it ever accomplish? Shouldn't you live for this moment and not any of the ones before? Isn't that what I'm doing today? Why can't I have the answers?
When I got my wisdom teeth out two years ago, I fell asleep with my coat on. When I woke up, it was off. I kept asking, "When did I take off my coat? Who took off my coat?" and the doctor kept saying, "Shh, shh, stop talking. It'll only make it worse." And of course, this just made me more panicky, because why was it easier for him to say that instead of just telling me when I took my coat off? Why did he think that would be easier for me to hear? I never found out when I took off my coat that day, and I hope that isn't some sort of foreshadowing for how my life will play out.
love always, laura elizabeth.