#46 Unfinished
These last weeks I’ve been busy working on a couple of books (not true, I’ve been working on four different projects in different stages) and I’ve neglected the social aspect of the writer’s life. I probably should be posting and showing myself more, but I’ve had trouble focusing on and finishing the short stories I used to write weekly, too. It might be a sign that I’ve reached my limit, or just a phase, but it bothers me, not being able to do something… so many things.
On top of the writing stuff, I have family life and self-care. I promised myself I would be better with my mind and body when the year changed, and I’ve been doing my best. I’ve failed to write about gratitude, and I haven’t used as many creams and serums as I’d said I would, but I’ve managed to keep moisturizing and self-preservation at a reasonable level. I should feel proud about it (one more lie: I should do better, or I will have rinkles as canyons and a mushy brain by my fifties).
It would be so cool to be like this… to have a bathtub like this, to be able to relax not caring about the rest of the world… or maybe I would be bored…I’ll think about it.
Still, you know what? I don’t care, not so much as I would do in the not so far away past. Next week will be awesome, and so will be the next months and years. This is not me “putting it out there,” but a firm conviction. No matter how much unfinished business I have right now, how incomplete or late according to my personal standard, things will get better and better, and I will keep on writing about it.
As a treat and example, here's my latest unfinished story, in response to the prompt: “Write about someone who finally finds acceptance, or chooses to let go of something.” I might finish it, or not, but I like it enough to share it as it is…
Self love
S
One day I’ll be gone, and it won’t matter. I won’t see the tears or listen to the stories someone might tell. I won’t be able to hug the ones I love or console those I left. It just won’t matter if I can see them or not, if I’m a witness to the chaos I left behind me. I’ll just be gone, sad and lonely, carried away by some terrible wind, one of those that change everything.
Right now, I love myself, though I know that’s no easy task. Apparently, I’ve been able to gather a vast number of negative traits that might taint how others see me. I’m at risk. It makes me laugh. It feels ridiculous how important it is to be seen in certain ways, how vital it is to be believed as good, when that doesn’t really matter. Not to them, not to me.
Some will say I forgot where I came from, and others will tell anyone willing to listen that I never explored enough. I killed my dreams, I lost my ways, I surrendered to love. Love. The great mistake I never regretted, even when it hurt, mostly when it didn’t. I never enjoyed the pain, but now I see it as the path necessary, the toll to pay to arrive here.
