who am I to disagree?
I love that song. Love Annie Lennox, too. anyway.
Been dreaming a lot. In the old way, the way I used to : in color, in great sweeping story lines, in ways that I remember when I wake up. In one way, it's fun; it's nice to dream like that again.
In another way, it's not fun; it's a reminder that I am different than I used to be. I don't know if that is good or bad.
For a very long time, I wanted only to be a writer.
I don't do it very well. I am coming to terms with this.
For at least as long, or maybe longer, I wanted only to be a singer.
I am now out of practice. This is easily remedied, yes; but I don't think that I was ever as good as I thought I was.
For most of my life, I wanted to be a doctor/nurse/healer.
I can't cope with the real life situations of an institutional practitioner. And as for the holistic, energy working herb using type: Apparently, no one requires my aid. Strange, in more than one way.
I can't tell you if I ever really had a firm fix on "what I want to be when I grow up" and I don't seem to be making any headway at this point, either.
I live with the feeling that everyone else is out having adventures and good times and seeing Really Wild Things -- and I am not. I am always in the wrong place at the wrong time for such exciting stories to meet me. I am the collector of stories not my own. And I don't know what to do about it.
I occasionally suffer from what I have come to call the Wilding: when the air is just right, and the wind is blowing, and the moon is full, I feel full of -- static. I itch. I crave speed and action and Really Wild Things -- I feel that if I could just catch the wind in the right way I could fly -- I feel full of electric POWER
with no way to do anything.
Sometimes Luigi takes me walking on the Bridge, and I pace and talk with no direction and sometimes I cry for the fact that I can't cross dimensions and meet my destiny. And then he takes me home and I might pace some more, cry some more; eventually the Wilding is gone and I am so very very tired, completely drained, wrung as a threadbare dishtowel. He puts me to bed, and I curl up with him in The Comfortable Position and maybe cry some more, as he strokes my hair and kisses my forehead. Finally I sleep, empty and hollow, resoundingly so. I wake the next day, and my eyes feel like I have been crying; hot and puffy and a little dry. But the day after is only a little gray around the edges, and I go on.
(weather: cloudy, been raining 70F 88.4% S 9.2mph
moon: waning 31.3% of full
mood: withdrawn.)
