morning pages
My mother was released from the hospital yesterday. My dad said she came, without shoes, and completely docile.
My memories of her and her icy, desperate eyes fill me almost with a sense of pride. My mother: the catalyst to any significant growth I have experienced in my life, any semblance of identity that separates me — if only by making me more aware. Of what, I’m not sure. My own insignificance, and the beauty that is possible because of it.
Forty-five hours I spent awake before tonight. Too many stimulants in my blood stream, but I experienced that frailty that I have missed for so long. It gives me a sense of reverence and submission that I can’t find else where. I said awareness before. that is what I think this feeling is: a greater sense of awareness.
Too much of my time I spend acting out of destruction. It hurts me that after all of the growth I thought I had experienced I should act as if I am still broken. But what am I besides my own actions? This is the perception I am leaving to any who will witness. I changed too much after moving here. No, I reverted too quickly back to my insecurities and the ease with which I can overlay them with awful projections of false confidence.
