****A friend asked me for a biography, so I am writing one. There will be edits and additions and deletions and such, but I am going to post as I go, because it won't end until I do.******
My world is small and it is precious. I don't like people coming inside of it. I don't let many in but it's not because I don't like humans as much as it is that I don't like the way humans treat each other, even accidentally. My world is fragile, and thus easily broken. Little moments carry great significance and my inner self, unbeknownst the the rest of me, assigns grand meanings to memories and mementos and ideologies that would seem otherwise unnoticeable or trite. The glimmer of light that passes through a darkened room as the shades are drawn is but a passing glance given by a distracted world whose eye has been caught. But to me it is a beacon of hope, a cool drip on a smoldering tongue.
I can't even care properly for myself, so why and how could I ever figure out how to trust anyone else? I create a safe space that may feign itself as cozy and open, but only when I occupy that world. Outsiders may visit for a time, amount selected by the universe, but every friend seems to overstay.
My life is a shattered bridge of warn-out welcomes, connecting my body to my soul. Every piece of me has either been meticulously gathered over time, mined from those with whom I interact, or resides within me since and until eternity, innate and inert until the moment I am most in need. Traces made appearances here and there, but it is only after years that I am able connect the dots of my personality, dead synapses firing to life one by one, millions of jasmines blooming in the night.
What I most yearn for is to be accepted as I am. To speak and think and write as I like and have people take it as my personal voice. This is how I see the world; I am not pretending. This is how I think about myself in relation to life and I cannot see things any other way. It is neither immature nor pretentious. Every label is misapplied because people assigned them based on their own personal assessments and relations to the word and subject. The results are skewed and nothing can be fair.
It's all about perspective
So when I make my heavy attempts to control anger, or violence, or speak my truth, or whatever circumstance, and I am not taken seriously purely based on my manner of thought, I find myself at a dead end of the conscience. I can only be all that God made me to be, He gave me my voice and the life I have lead, by His grace, has brought me my words. What person who walks this earth could ever dare tell me I am less than I am? And why do I believe them?
What's more, it starts in my own heart most days. I look out into this world and see thousands of boxes that I don't fit in, and am too easily hurt when reality appears. I see limits and walls instead of ladders and bridges. So I condition myself to expect disappointment and rejection and then become depressed when that's what I get.
You could say confidence isn't exactly my strong suite.
I must climb the mountains, I must scale my battles and claim the territory of my soul. God gives me the strength to overcome yet how daunting is the task! But victory is the Lord's, and I shall see him face to face one day. Resting in God alone.
But there is yet this life on earth, and my struggles come and go. Just like friends, and love, and good chocolate.
