‘my heart is an isolationist, and isolationism never helped anybody.’i wrote this phrase months and months ago.
still, it haunts me, leaping to the forefront of my thoughts, a whisper in my ear.
and here i sit, months and months later, my heart as closed, as rigid, as stubborn as ever.
i feel sorry for myself, sometimes. ride the train, wailing ‘nobody likes me,’ round and round, but maybe the truth is this:
i don’t like anybody.
i am too self-focused to get to know anybody
this is a hard pill to swallow, realizing you are the common denominator in your struggles, you are the tsunami sweeping over land, devastation in its wake.
you are the problem.
(i am the problem)
i have a barrel of excuses.
excuses as thin as not having enough time,
as vast as having too much fear,
as complicated as past trauma and anxiety.
at the end of the day
this one thing remains:
they are excuses.
words designed to keep me safely ensconced in my comfort zone, to ward off hurt or embarrassment, and to keep my world comfortably small.
and that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?
the ugliness in the world, by and large, is derived from an unchecked urge to always
be in control.
love, compassion, empathy, generosity require the loss of control.
and maybe i need to realize:
i was never really in control, anyway.