The goalie to our own attempt at goal

I'll be the first to admit, wholeheartedly, that I am not a good writer. In fact, I keep this blog for no other reason than to voice out diatribes that somehow escape through my strong filter. It doesn't really matter though, I love writing.

When I was younger, let's be creative and say perhaps 15 years younger or so, I used to write in a journal. I know this sounds like the worst teenage cliche, but I wrote in a journal for health reasons. I was worried my head would explode. It was actually a serious concern of mine. I actually thought that my head would explode. I was a teenager after all. Everything of very little consequence meant everything to me. Read that again. It actually does make sense.

I was a very optimistic, unspoiled person. I believed in everything. I'm proud to report that 15 years later, I can say that that is still almost true. Anyways, I loved writing. When I wrote, it was a way for me to explore those dreams that I used to have. I used to have so many dreams of travelling. That was what I wanted the most when I was younger, to travel. I wanted to explore. I wanted to experience. I wanted so much, just to embrace wherever it was I was. I don't think of this as a dream unfulfilled, but just a dream not yet obtained.

I loved creating stories of heroines exploring, learning new traditions, with no boundaries, with no limits. I dreamed so much.

I feel like we are the goalies to our own goals. We take the shot, and then somehow block them. We strike out to do something different, and then to our own chagrin, we block our own attempts. Should I say "we"? I suppose it's pretty presumptuous for me to speak for others, but it's a rather good guess. I had a goal a decade ago, a whole entire decade ago...(seriously, time, wtf?) that I would work in travel. I would meet so many interesting characters, I would drift in and out of people's lives, just as the waters of our wild oceans meander in and our of our lives, and I would see as much as my eyes could possible allow me to see.

...and now I work a 9-5. It happens. That doesn't mean anything though. I'm not throwing in the towel quite yet. Life is not done, it's not over, no one dares write my story except for me, so we'll see. I guess this is how I remain somewhat unspoiled, because I won't let anyone or anybody take away the possibility of possibilities. (again, read it...it actually does make sesnse).

Now if only I can stop being the all to hard working goalie against my own goals. The only doubts, the only obstacles to the goals we have in our lives, is us.

Prose

It's been a long time since I've been inspired to write anything of any importance. Today, being the humdinger that it was, seems to have awaken the hungry literary giant inside of me. It's not pretty, you see, it's hungry, famished, it's been longing for a purge of passion. As I grow older, to my dismay, it seems that my life has become more and more passionless. I attribute this to the 9 to 5 lifestyle, the wretched quest to be more responsible, less whimsical, and more and more sedate. 

Today, it seems as though the accumulation of my past mistakes came to a head. My realization of past actions and decisions, how they have carved out this present that I live in, it hit. Like a rude truck on a lonely, desperate highway, it hit. 

In an odd way, it was comforting, because we all know all too well, that no matter what corner on earth you try to hide, your past will remind you that you are fallible. This doesn't mean that it's to be stewed upon uncontrollably, but it is an unkind reminder, that our decisions do matter. 

I see this type of realization to be a gateway to hope. We made it this far, despite these mistakes that we made, I feel we should allow ourselves to revel in that.

But passion. I missed you my dear friend. I missed the careless strewn emotions, accompanying my every whim. I miss the feeling of taking in the cool night air, the listening of whatever music beset my many silly moods. I miss the prose of it all.

I used to go on drives, on adventures, where the solitary presence promised a feeling of freedom. I think the best way to describe it is that I felt an utter sense of me. Sometimes, it feels that as we meander in our every day lives, the sense of "me" gets lost. We become "we", "us", "them". When we are alone, no matter what setting we choose to celebrate that aloneness, we revisit that "me". I feel it is so important. So necessary to who we are as individuals. 

I'm not trying to diminish the importance of our relationships, family, friends, lovers...but that "me"...that is who we are underneath it all. It's the part of us that can rebuild, that can repair, that can remember. It's the part of us that should never be let go.

It's rare now, because I don't go on these drives anymore, it's rare for me to feel at one, just by myself. I miss it. When I have an opportunity to sense it again, I will grasp, I will cling onto it. I will remember that wild child in me, yearning to get out. I will give her a reprieve, even if just for a few precious moments. That wild child saved me, made me who I am. She sought to be brave when I wanted nothing but to give up. She forced optimism on me, when the throes of pessimism were knocking my walls down. She holds the passion that will see me through anything. The passion that will see me through more. She made the promises of a better future, even when things seemed lost. She is me, only now wanting to come out when skies are gray, just to welcome the blue skies once again.

This is my prose, of a me that I can never forget, of a me that sometimes, I just have to let out.