I always get this almost overwhelming urge to begin every post with, "It's a-me! Mario!" But I am not, last I checked, a squatty Italian plumber wearing blue overalls and sometimes a lab coat. What I wouldn't give to have blue overalls, though. They seem comfortable and practical, except for when you need to pee and LORD KNOWS I HAVE TO PEE OFTEN. Because I'm a girl! Shrug shoulders, lightly laugh while coyly avoiding eye contact (but apparently not adverbs). I could go on and on and on about Mario and the cultural importance of Nintendo, but I won't. And I won't even continue to write about my pea-sized bladder. Knowing that those are the two most fascinating subjects one could discuss, I suggest you stop wasting your time and stop reading.
Reading. I can tell I'm unemployed when my eyes have a difficult time focusing. (Is it my eyes doing the focusing or me? And what is this "me" I'm stuck with? Am I my eyes? Are my eyes me? Is Mario the apple of my eye? And do apples really have that much fiber?) My eyes become strained from all of the compulsive reading I do. Compulsive? I'd say so. Necessary? Definitely, although it isn't food or water or oxygen. Let's be real -- I could survive out in the Alaskan wilderness without a thick, pretentious book. So maybe it's not necessary. But it sure as hell feels like it.
Currently reading: The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol by Stephanie Meyer (psych), In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, and Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Barker. And okay okay okay, about a dozen other books. But these are the three I am focusing on right now and trying my damnedest to finish without abandoning them for something else that briefly catches my eye, which brings me to my next thought...
...I gotta stop starting and stopping people, places, and things. Specifically people. It's not that I have had any recent experiences with abandonment or heartbreak or what have you. I haven't. But when I'm not compulsively reading Russian short stories, true crime, or obscure coming-of-age tales, I am accidentally doing a lot of self-reflection. I can't help it. I can see now why people keep themselves busy -- so busy that they can't think about anything other than work/soccer practice/crafting/cooking elaborate meals/Mario Kart. I get it. Self-reflection is a doozy. Self-reflection is the flashlight with the just-a-little-too-bright beam. It reveals everything, both our triumphs and our tragedies.
My current self-reflection has focused in on my relationships, most of them failed. Or maybe not even failed; perhaps simply abandoned. I run away before anything with anyone can fully form. I see seeds being planted, but I never stick around for spring. I flee. Is it too easy to say that the reason I do this is because in the long run I want to be the one in control? The one who leaves rather than the one who is left? I think there's more to it than that -- we aren't two-dimensional characters (sometimes I think life would be easier if we were). But I think there's a lot of truth in saying that I let fear rule my choices and ultimately my life. Fear of the unknown, fear of unrestraint, fear of understanding the heart in all of its deep sadness and even deeper joy.
But now I'm bored. Or maybe I'm just more... Rational. Not to say that being rational means I am unemotional, but maybe it means I get less carried away with destructive emotions. Maybe I am ready to quiet down, to slow down, to open up. To be vulnerable. And isn't that what relationships and love are all about? Being raw, exposing oneself and one's heart to what may end up being despair, but could also end up in delight? Delight never lasts, but neither does despair. I think the chance is worth it.
WELL! This post took a serious turn! Started out with a Mario-themed stream-of-consciousness and ended with gooey love shit. Hey, that's a-me! A girl with strained eyes and a longing for love and overalls. Peace, sweethearts.