Do you ever have a feeling deep within you, telling you to reach out to somebody? Anybody. Maybe it's an estranged loved one, a friend from a past life, or a complete stranger passing on the street. For whatever reason, something inside of you is asking you to reach out to them. Maybe there's not even a reason for it, but somehow you know it's important.
I had that feeling last night.
I journal when I feel like I need to make sense of something. For some reason, the sensation of putting pen to paper calms me. It's like when your body is going through an anxiety attack and you feel stiff as a board - when life is too much, I put my pen to paper and it's like I can breathe again.
Last night I stayed up late, because I needed to breathe.
Do you ever feel something you've written is meaningful in some way, beyond yourself? You may not know why, but you know someone out there needs to be reached? I had that feeling last night. So, I'm sharing. Partly because I want someone to understand, and my mind is always lying to me about how nobody truly does. But mostly because - after my pen scribbled what I needed to exhale - I thought of people who are beautifully inspirational.
I thought of the people I love, of estranged friends from the past, and I thought of strangers who deserve to smile.
If you are reading this, know that you are loved. Even if I don't know you personally, I know you are worth everything. My dearest reader, it is my sincerest hope that you feel valued - truly.
I want to live life more unapologetically, share words with beautiful people who appreciate them, and allow myself to become more vulnerable. I may regret it - once my introverted self allows my reservations sink stiffly back inside me - but maybe I won't. This has to be the point, right? To acknowledge the uncomfortable parts of life - no matter what - and make sure the beauty within isn't stifled by our fear of the unknown.
Tonight, I'm going to write simply.
I guess I'm sad. I really don't have a reason to be; since the last time I wrote, a lot of wonderful things have happened. A lot of big, wonderful, happy, life changing things. But, I guess I'm still sad. Not all the time. No, not always. But right now? I'm sad.
It's late and I should be in bed, sleeping soundly, but I'm not. I'm awake and I'm sad and I'm wondering why. I wonder why a lot. For a lot of things. Most of which truly do not matter, but I still wonder.
Why?
Why do I not feel enough?
I don't mean my feelings, I know I feel plenty.
Why do I never feel like I - myself - am enough?
I'm sitting here, sad, because I'm looking at a beautiful painting I made.
It's not beautiful because it's well done, but it's beautiful because when I see it - I see myself in it. I see the pieces of me that I hide, even from myself sometimes.
There they are, unintentionally laid bare in front of me, and I'm forced to face them.
I see my feelings.
My doubts.
Mistakes.
Ideas and realizations and hopes.
Fear and hurt and love.
It's beautiful.
Even the ugly is beautiful, because it's real.
I've never kept a painting of mine. Not one. I always gift them away. People seem to like them and offer to buy them from me, and I guess that's great - that people see something in them - but it's bittersweet.
I like that people find joy in my art and get to keep it forever.
I love making others happy.
I live for that, for the happiness of others.
But tonight, all I can think about is how I put so much of me in each of those canvases... I learn so much about myself in each of those canvases. Sometimes it feels like I'm giving them all away, giving myself away, before I can take the time to appreciate the lesson I taught myself in those brushstrokes.
I'm sitting here, looking at a painting that holds the deepest, darkest parts of me - the only one that mirrors the darkest parts of me - and it's already been claimed. Before I can understand why I'm making it into what it is, it already belongs to someone else.
I feel like I do this to myself too often. I don't take the time to understand what's made me who I am. Unless it's unreasonably late and I'm having a notorious burst of insomnia, I don't take time to myself to understand or appreciate what I've been through.
So, I'm here. Sitting on a couch, alone, at an unreasonable hour.
Life is beautiful, life is great, but I'm just sad. Not always, but I'm sad right now. And that means something. I need to let it mean something...
Life is precious, in every wave and form it comes in.
Absolutely precious.
All my love,
K.
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