When I write for myself, I do it for different reasons. Sometimes I write to force my brain to go slowly. Sometimes I write to make beauty out of something ugly. Sometimes I write to give back. Most of the time, I write to capture something: a moment, a thought, a feeling. I write to help my future self create the story of my life.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust my own memories—I’m not sure if I really remember things. I think I just keep attaching stories to what I feel, trying to make things fit.
To live in real-time is confusing. Life’s just meant to be lived, too big to be understood. But sometimes, I need to understand. That’s why I write.
Today I’m writing during the strangest of times. Recent events have disrupted the order of our lives at high speed, making us see how fragile our order was in the first place. The interesting piece is that I’m not sure how this applies to me. My mess was here before, and it comes from the inside.
For years now, I’ve been searching for something. But I don’t know what it is. No matter where I am, I stay in the corner of the room and I look around, participating only partially. Looking for that thing. I guess I’ve been just adventuring, testing life as if it was a game. Now, I feel stuck in this weird, beta testing phase.
I guess the truth is that I’m more tired than ever. At some point, my adventure turned into a search—and it is an anxious, urgent one. Perhaps this is what happens when you start being aware of your own age for the first time, of what it really means to grow older.
Because now, I know: there are some things that I simply won’t be able to live. That realization it’s scary: the cost of opportunity of having a life with an expiration date. I guess I need to evaluate priorities now, to create a vision for myself and commit to it. To figure out what I want, as they say.
The problem is that I find myself unable to decide. There are many things that seem both a good idea, but incompatible. I find myself trapped in these polarities all the time these days, unable to chose my path.
Option one: to keep pursuing what I thought was the love of my life.
Option two. To stop pursuing people who don’t pursue me too.
Option one. To run away from what I was to find who I really am.
Option two. To stop burning all my bridges.
Option one. To fight my fear of other people.
Option two. To control my urge to be accepted by them.
Option one. I’m good, just not easily seen.
Option two. I’m actually being seen, but not loved.
Trapped in between many things, I am forced to stay still, and to keep observing. At least, that’s something I know I can learn from all of this: to improve my ability to stay just here, in between. Undefined. Uncomfortable. Fluid.
I’m scared, but I know fear works differently when you don’t run from it. If you feel it, fear hurts, but it doesn’t destroy. It transforms.
So just for the sake of it, I choose to see fear as the ultimate tool of my biology. Fear gives me the extra push I need when I’m about to look at things that are difficult to handle. Now, I’m doing precisely that: looking at them. That is enough. And time will unfold, doing the rest.
Los Angeles, California