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.