I am blank

November 17, 2008 Candace Morris 6 Comments

I think I have a disease.
Is there such a thing as having too much meaning in life?

  1. Every.single.action is examined, masticated, swallowed, regurgitated, liquefied, vaporized, breathed out, breathed in, poisoned.
  2. Every.single.person is loved, hated, obsessed over, known, isolated, overly-familiar, a complete stranger, misunderstands*
  3. Every.single.challenge is never challenge enough.
  4. Every.single.relationship is never intimate nor safe enough.
  5. Every.single.ounce of life cannot pass without analysis and question.
  6. Every.single.emotion is simultaneously numbing and painful.
  7. Every.single.minute is accompanied by an intense desire to retreat from others but hurt when they feel the need to retreat from you.
  8. Every.single.family gathering carries immense weight because we all die...and it will someday no longer be like this. "Must take it all in, don't miss a moment."
  9. Every.single.word of both encouragement and criticism takes deep root in a garden long ignored and forgotten.

This, as you may have guessed, is too much pressure on one little life.

In these last few months, I have made very little sense to myself...why would I expect to make sense to anyone else? [and if someone assures me they do know me, why is this such a unpalatable affront?] I don't want to be known so much as left alone. Yet being abandoned in this pursuit is one of my deepest fears.

I am blank, barren, white, unoccupied. I am a me I don't recognize.
The me I want to be is a great artist.
But in my terror, I see


*"Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood."— Ralph Waldo Emerson

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