I have just left my e-reader sitting on the chair realizing as I read in my comfortable recliner that it has been a long time since a novel captured me. Their language and story finds me remembering my poetic longing for love and romance. In some synchronistic fashion I have found words that wrap me in my long love story yearning for my lost father and the attention and excitement he created in my formative years before he died. I also realized that all the self help books gathered around my chair gave me some notion of making myself feel smarter. None of this is a simple story of just getting to my feelings of having an insecure need. Simply said, now it was alright to have longings and feelings embedded in my brain as hard wiring capturing and misconstruing my thoughts, saying it was not alright to have feelings. A voice of can’t that lingers deep within me. The intonation that I was good enough would give me all that I need in continually working at learning. Terms of handling life, messy as it is, I will meet it all. This was now a time I was looking at all my stories to find expression when teased out by life as I kept looking instinctively into my primal self.
Now I am looking, again. The voice weaving its thread’s tightly. I venture into areas I think I’m not ready for. Or was it historical fears needing to tell me that reputation can be found in practice is needed even when it is boring but needed. Drama and self acceptance had not been my friend and waiting for structure could only be found if I used a compulsory will power as I saw needs from looking at past trauma. Acceptance was now a new drummer finally declaring order while riding the wave of my final years.
