Voids and Disillusionment

The alarm clock sounds and the reality of your dreams fades into the actual reality, but what truly is real? I ask this question every morning I wake up to the first snooze button attempt. I never want to get up, to participate in anything outside my dreams. It isn't my life is boring. I love everything about my life, I have an awesome job, a stellar social circle, and great health. There is nothing I am missing, yet I never feel satisfied. For years, I have ponder whether that is how I am wired or is there actually something I lack in my very believable, even to myself, full-life.

Its that transcendency into the monotony of life that bores me that makes me wonder is what we dream who we really are or is it what we do? I know when I awake that I will have breakfast, I will shower, and I will do a great job at work but there is hardly ever any surprises in my day. I need surprises. In my dreams, there are limitless adventures, laughter, interesting people, and food that would scare and satisfy you. So when I lay my head down at night, it is hard for me to be grateful for a day that was so predictable. Swarms of guilt override me as I realize how many people are dying, starving, and cold at the same moment I am feeling less than fully human because my day was average.

How can I be so selfish? I have no idea, I never have thought of myself as a selfish person, but in those moments I am. Although, I try to look at it as those are the moments I push myself to get more out of life but at the same time, am I letting life just pass by without a second glance?

Twenty-something is a title I hold proudly. I am confused the majority of my life, but I love it. Seriously, I love the grey area. I love when my life is in a grey area, men who are  flaky, unpredictible  and indecisive are my weakness, trips that have no plans are what I prefer, and food with no description makes me feel like I am jumping out of a plane with every bite. It's like my high. I am addict to the feeling of uncertainty and every time my life is predictible withdrawal symptoms start to appear.

The thirst I yearn for, I don't think it will ever be quench. How do you tame a wild thing without changing it? I love the dichotomy of my personality half-succesful business women and the half-hippie only living for the moment and the experiences of the road. Maybe my 20s are suppose to be filled with such confusion or maybe the confusion is really lessons where I learn the deepest parts of my soul.

I am wild to the truest definition. Some how wild got to be the description for a woman who drank too-much and slept around with too many men, but how can we short-change such a word. Being wild has nothing to do with staying up past 2 am it is how you view your freedom. Being wild is not allowing preconceived notions of life and illusions of white-fences and Norman Rockwell style of life to be cast upon you. You must follow this line that everyone follows, no, the wild are those that chose to be different. They are the ones who enjoy the grey area of life and realize it isn't grey but full of unexplainable color.

I am not a communicator with the spoken word, I never have been. For my whole life I keep things deep inside until the fester and break me in ways that only years of emotional repression would do to a person.

A lot of people can't admit that they are broken, I am. I look into the mirror everyday, and I see straight through to the 12 year-old girl that stared into it 15 years ago. I still see her eyes and her spirit but when I concentrate on the foreground, which is the me now, all I see are broken pieces sewn back together again. The reflection I see isn't whole but a continuous amount of trauma, disappointment, and broken hope stitched together enough to make me recongizable. I keep hoping I will one day find myself again but I am not there. I never will be again, at least not the way I was. I miss that side of me before death, before loss and before a string of heartbreaks. Imagine if other people could see our perception of our own reflection? How raw and intimate that would be? Then you think about it, that is what love is, the bravery enough to let someone in to see all your scars and all your broken pieces and hope they still want to love you?

If only it was that simple.