The End of the String and Me!

I used to believe that if nothing else, my words shall remain mine always…  How?  They will always be true to who I am.  Not the I, that you want to see and not the me you want me to be but just ME.  It is why writing has always given me such joy.

My words are tainted.  I knew that.  They are no longer mine because they are no longer my truths.  I knew that too.  They too are coloured by my understanding of what I know people would want to read.  And I don’t really care.  It is just random… the word ‘Bullshit’ comes to mind rather strongly.

Knowing who I am, and what I do and still continuing to deceive myself about the way I cheat myself is routine.

I don’t expect people to even see past what I show them.  So, realizing that not everyone is blind and there are people who actually see enough to show you a stark truth about yourself is bloody daunting!!  And that little bit infuriating too!  The normal rules of the game are no applicable.. It is no longer your sandbox.  New ground!  And there is no comfort zone…  Except that…

I know I can take what is said at actual face value.  Consequently, I have no choice but to respect and face the challenge to be true to myself.  Eventually!  How many people actually encourage you to do that?  I may not do that right now but maybe one day I will.  On the other hand, how many people would actually want to keep coming face to face with someone who keeps showing them a mirror they’d rather bury along with Pandora’s box?

The cauldron inside my head is bubbling a little faster today.  It always does when I try and make the effort of taking myself in hand and sorting my head out.  Ashamedly though, I always back away from that first little step because I am scared of getting tangled up in the unravelling that will follow…  I was told sometime ago that I’m brave because I’m not scared of the dark.  Purposely pulling at the string that could take apart the cocoon that keeps you safe and secure takes a lot more courage than just going into a dark room.

There is no place I feel safer than this dark chrysalis of my own making.  I remember an English lesson from long ago where my teacher likened a caterpillar’s cocoon to a tomb where it sleeps without a care… untouched till it can turn into a butterfly.  She said nothing can force the caterpillar out till it is time and it is ready to emerge.  But she also said there were times when within the shell, it turned to dust with all the beauty and colour that could be, reduced to nothingness.

What will I be?