I’m tired. I’m in so many levels of pain. I long to go somewhere else other than the security of my room. But it’s all I have, there isn’t a second home. No other place to rest my head when I’ve had enough of my own solitude. No other place I can go retreat to so I don’t feel so alone. Oh, how I long to surrender my weary soul to some other healing hands when my own just won’t put me back together.
There’s a fine line between becoming one with someone else and losing yourself completely. Some people are able to balance their individualism flawlessly, being sure to maintain complete autonomy when not together. But once they meet again, they become a team of impenetrable force. Then there’s the others… the ones who struggle to differentiate independence. They bleed into each other and fill in every gap between them, seamless and locked in place. There is no “me,” only “us.” You become one unit, nothing more and nothing less. There’s nothing wrong with losing yourself in another person, as long as you acknowledge that you are not your own anymore.
Maybe we’re all brainwashed by the media; that you’re not complete until someone else comes along and fills the void inside of you. You’re a beautiful puzzle, but you’re missing that final piece that is long gone… the one that is stuck between the seam of the couch cushion that you never noticed was lost and forgotten.
Then lo and behold, you finally searched hard enough and found that piece. You eagerly rush to the puzzle and push the piece in. The picture is finally complete. Everything is perfect now, right? It’s complete. You’re complete. But now you realized the puzzle is on a surface not suitable to stay on forever. So now comes the dilemma: do you move the puzzle ever so gingerly elsewhere? Or do you take it apart and reconstruct it again, but this time with glue so you can display it for all to see? There’s so many paths and decisions to make, trying to capture and retain the beauty of what you’ve worked so hard to put together. But nothing is ever perfect, is it? However you move forward with your choice, the puzzle is going to shift. It’s going to fall apart. Pieces will fall away and you may never see them again. When you take it apart and rebuild it this time with glue, the pieces won’t be as precise as before. There might be a jagged edge here and there, even bent corners. You become frustrated. You want to give up, you want to throw it away. So instead of staying the course and seeing this through, you shove the pieces angrily off the surface, watching as they tumble away. What a waste. What a waste of energy and time. All the love you put into building something so special is just gone.
That’s how real love works I suppose, in real life. You’re either all in, or not. There are no half-measures. You take the risk, you let go of the fears… that’s why they call it “falling in love.” You find someone so special that they inspire you to become a better version of yourself, over and over again. Or you don’t. I can’t speak for everyone.
Of course, staying alone is easier. It’s always easier. There are no risks to embark on, no emotional ties to another beating heart. Living life without a connection. Sounds so serene, right? I think not. I think a little emotional chaos is required to truly feel alive. Others may not feel that way, but this is coming from someone whose emotional mind dictates her life 90% of the time. And you know what? I don’t care… let my emotions and feelings consume me. At least I’m risking my lacerated heart, sacrificing it to myself or for someone else. I might fall, and I might hit the concrete, and my blood may splatter everywhere for all to see. Or maybe I’ll hit the ground and bounce right up back into cloud 9. Sure, we may all float back down safely eventually.
But that’s the beauty in love; you never know what the outcome will be. I know that’s scary, but is life not about falling in love? Not even just with each other, but with the little things you take for granted; the breeze that circles you just when you need it to, or the soft sheets that you laid so delicately on your bed where you close your eyes and drift away, or with the beautiful memories you’ve made that replay in your head. Isn’t life supposed to be filled with love? How can you love anything if you don’t risk your own heart and soul? There is no surrendering to someone or something else without lowering your guard. There’s only loneliness and emptiness. There’s only the stabbing pain of confusion, anguish and anger. There are dreams lost, wishes unanswered, heavy hearts, and a stolen life that once lived in your spirit.
So we close ourselves off. Never welcoming anything into our hearts. It’s better this way, right? Why try when the stories behind us in old chapters have made their marks. It’s written in our souls. There’s no undoing it, no reason to move forward. The story won’t change, right? There’s no rewriting our present moments, no reason to rewrite the future and what we want it to be, right? That’s fucking bullshit, and you all know it. You’re just too afraid to pick up the pen and attempt to write it again.
I may have ugly, frightful, and painful stories that are etched in my skin, in my heart, and burned into my mind. But I choose to continue to rewrite and revise. Every day I’m writing an essay inside my mind. I revisit those old stories, I appreciate them because I lived through them and I’m able to share them with the world now. In the moments of me writing them, it was unbearable and I didn’t want to finish the chapter. I wanted to lay down my pen and toss the book into the fireplace in my heart. But I didn’t, and here I am, still writing these stories for myself so I can look back and feel proud that I kept going. I kept feeling, I kept embracing the good and bad emotions, and now they are here to read and refer back to when the time comes.
Even through my stories of struggle, joy, anger and broken spirit, I have found love between the pages. I have written my own love story. I have crafted my heart to burst and break, be embraced and held tightly in the spine of the book and seams that hold the pages together. I have surrendered myself to it. I have surrendered myself even when I’ve been looked straight through. I’ve laid myself out for the world to see, and some choose to cherish those stories and flip through the pages and smile, laugh, and help continue to write the adventure. They eagerly include themselves into my story line, becoming an important character in my book of life. I’m overjoyed at their enthusiasm to be part of my heart… then there are others choose to take a glimpse into my stories, turn their eyes away and close the book. They leave it in a dusty corner of the attics in their mind, never to be read ever again.
My book is here. It’s open, it’s exposed, and my life is written for the world to see. All it takes is someone’s interest and attention to become enchanted with the words I’ve laid out. I’m risking my vulnerability. I’m not saying I’m not afraid, I’m terrified sometimes. I’m afraid the pages of my life will be burned by someone without a second thought. But that’s the risk I take for being a book out in the open. But that’s the thing: I’d rather be open on display for all to see than to be tucked away between so many other books that will never be opened. If I’m open and filled with stories that can inspire another heart, invoke love and life and spark a new purpose, then me surrendering myself wasn’t in vain.
Will you choose to follow along my story line? Or has your time come to an end and the chapter is finished? It takes a moment to surrender, a risk that could end in shambles, or flourish in beauty and love.
Sometimes surrendering isn’t enough for the reader; sometimes they just want to see tragedy and move on.
Either outcome, I deeply thank you for writing yourself in my story. You’ve written the words that bring me closer to happiness… whether you’re part of that or not.
I only hope the book of your life can be as colorful as mine. I hope you surrender to the stories your heart is trying to write. I hope you drop your guard and live your life without regrets. I hope you keep writing, even if it hurts. I hope you fall in love with your stories over and over again. I hope you don’t hesitate and hold yourself back. Tell yourself your story so you can read, revise and rewrite. I hope you never erase a single word. Every word, every moment is precious. I hope you realize that before it’s too late.
Spill your guts on the pages; surrender yourself. Tell the world your story.
Because one day, someone will take you off the shelf and bring you home.