A few posts back I declared my decision to change things up. Since then, I've changed the look of my blog twice, I've written two posts unlike anything I've ever written before and I've shaved my head. I expected all of them to feel fantastic. I expected the change to be instant and epiphanal. I expected a bald head to feel so good after the knotty long curls. I expected too much from a 'one' and I expected too much from myself.
I think I may have delved back into my Chelsea roots in some way. I was looking at results and expecting satisfaction.
It was a hollow, scary, painful and helpless experience and it didn't seem like it was ever going to end. I was living in the eyes of other people. I was living in the eyes of unimpressed professors and dead friendships. And as much as I knew, and as much as I told myself and was told by the only one who bothered to tell, the sheer futility of seeing myself from someone else's eyes never really dawned upon me.
Now I'm not saying one should never look through someone else's eyes, I'm not saying other people don't matter, all I'm saying is living by it and doubting yourself because of it, is if nothing else, dreadfully tiring.
It's not been instant, it's lasted weeks and tears, but the clouds seem to have moved on over now that the monsoon is here.
I'm writing for myself. For what I want. I'm writing for the impact I want to create. If I don't, I'll try again until I do it. The excitement of spontaneity and now-ness is incredible but it's not sustainable. Now the time has come for a far longer lasting satisfaction. Comfort and living.
The leaf is cleaned and it's not turned but the angle's changed a bit. In my right back pocket is a notebook. In my bag there are plans and in my head there's a buzz. Not an insane fuzzy confused buzz but a focused buzz with a smirk.
With a comfort I can count on and a will to not feel like shit, I doubt I can do much wrong.
There are things to be done.