Saturday, April 25, 2009, 8:52 PM
I am a child of tomorrow. But here I am in this moment. There is no where else to be. Even if ever since kindergarten, I've always imagined life two years or more ahead.
Still, I realize looking ahead can be a good thing if I have goals in mind: concrete things to work my way towards. (Which I never had, aside from being a best selling novelist by the age of 30 because I figured by the age of 30, enough interesting stuff would have happened to me and I could write about it all convincingly.) What a joke that turned out to be! The last person I want to write about is myself. Like le gag.
The thing is, though, I've been telling myself just wait til you're 16, or 18, or 21, or 30 ... for too long now. Yeah, I could have died painlessly-romantically-tragically at the age of 23 and someone (probably Oogie) would have written a wonderful whatchamacallit that would be read at my funeral), but obviously that never happened.
Besides, the waiting-for-experience part hasn't worked. Nothing magical has cast a golden net across my body, wracked me from the soul inside-out, or taken my heart by storm. I always thought it would, too. Something or someone outside of my shy, rather boring self was going to explode and make a difference. I was going to make a difference. It was the one idea I clung to growing up, because surely there was a reason why I had been born, right? (Searching, searching, searching for anything outside of me, I know this, I know this. The answer is only to be found inside.)
Lots of people think moving across the country after my divorce was a brave thing to do. In retrospect, I agree, but I didn't feel brave at the time and I sure don't feel brave now. Leaving everything and everyone I knew was terrifying, but at the time, I didn't see any other option. I was terrified to stay and I was terrified to go. So I chose the option that might help me grow. And it has. I wouldn't trade the last few years of my life, although the first year after moving here? Awful, so awful I couldn't really talk about it. Or blog about it. I just skimmed the edges, always conscious of who was reading, who could be hurt, who could be angered.
Things have changed, though. I've changed. I have to fight to believe in Peter Pan, Santa Claus and The Tooth Fairy. I cling to the feelings of those memories with everything I have, and I rocket-stomp across the sad little bitch inside. I fight hard. I don't want the bitter cynic to win. Ever.
It'd be a lot easier if I didn't feel torn in two, though.