Sometimes words fail me. Rarely, but it does happen. When I fail myself. Usually, it is a mental thing, a loss of faith in myself and my belief in my ideals. A loss of conscious awareness of my strength and the power of love. A loss of sense of hope. While it may seem that I dance on the edge of a two edge sword at times as I let out all of my doubts and frustrations in meandering babbles (how often do I use the word meandering?... How often do I meaner?... How dry I am?), the words flow because my strength and clarity rise to push all the doubt, frustration, and far into words and out of me. That is the process of writing for me. When the words dry up, that is when I am in trouble.
My sense of failure comes from the fact that I have no physical place in this world today that I can share with someone else today - so I have no way of saying to the few I hold dearest in my heart in this life that you always have a place to stay if you need it. If Jackson or Precious or Minnie or any of the few others I've adopted as my family - or their children ever need the reassurance that they can come to me for a safe place to lay their head down for the night and be protected from everything in this world - I do not have that safe space to give them.
I've given too much away and not taken care of myself enough because... no one else seems to care if I do. Those closest to me have not stopped me from giving them too much and leaving myself with too little to maintain the independent indoor space in this world our culture considers normal minimum - a house or apartment. I gave away a house for love. I am a fool to give as much as I do. Yet I will not change, for to give less, to love less, is not right for me. All the songs that sing to and from my core are starting to play.
I'll just watch TV and let myself fall asleep whenever it happens now.
Maybe I'll be saved by the music again.
Or chocolate.
Narf. :)
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