A Story or a Moment?

Dear SR,

I think I’m stuck lately. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what’s got me pinned to the ground I find myself standing on, but I for sure don’t seem to be making forward progress. Or maybe I do know what’s got me stuck. Isn’t that sad? I don’t even know how much I’m kidding myself anymore.

I’m bouncing between different degrees of imposter syndrome. I find myself thinking about how I’m just at that age where anything is everything and the world feels so infinitely limited. Then sometimes, with the cry of a single sentence, whether significant or not, I come to realize that I’m wrong. It’s not just that part of the tale that everyone goes through. The world doesn’t just seem dramatic, it IS utterly terrifying, and it’s wounded me. Then with the most over exaggerated whiplash I find myself cast back to a moment ago where I am once again insisting that it’s a phase.

I feel like I’m on the stage performing Shakespeare and the show lights are on. They burn my skin, leaving welts and scabs that I can’t stop picking at, but I convince myself that when I walk off the stage, those markings will wash away as if they were somehow part of the show. A show that nobody is watching. One where the stage lights follow you as you walk home in the bitter cold wind, unable to stop noticing that the stage lights continue to stalk you. The show never ends.

As I’m sure you are aware I have convinced myself that anyone who would come to take a peak would be those who enjoy to watch the skin flake off a layer at a time. Maybe they would laugh and think it’s all for comedic affect. I definitely don’t help that to be fair. I know some come to the theatre to because they care. They can’t bare to see it, but they show their support anyways. Those people that for so long I had believed that they either only came for a moment before they walked out and I never saw them again, or they wanted to stay longer but could not bare to sight. I can’t blame any of them. Nor will I ever.

Look at this. What a flurry of analogous words that ultimately end up a tangled mess. I am speaking of nothing really. Perhaps though, some may see it as a story. I believe every story ever told really happened, and that our memories are crafted into the words of folklore and tales when they are inevitably forgotten. It’s the way it should be, but if this is all a story then it is safe to assume that it’s over. That I am at an end.

I’m not sure I want it to be over just yet. I know that may be a pleasant surprise to you. I’m usually writing these letters to brood to you about my thoughts and high maintenance emotions. This time however, I think I want to live in the thought that I can walk away from the stage and sit in the audience. Not to watch a story that is being told after its time has come, but rather to be among those in the first row. The seats reserved for those who love me. Many have come in and out of those seats and have moments of their own to share. I can’t wait to listen to what they have to say. Some have chosen to leave and even if it comes with pain I wholeheartedly understand and respect them and am grateful for what time they shared being part of my life. Maybe those who remain are few, and maybe they will continue to dwindle, but I’m grateful to see them there.

The curtains wont close on this moment just yet…I think…

i hope.

love always,
wb