This Shadowy Puzzle

If you're ever feeling depressed, listen to NF for an hour. Or two. Or three. Or forever. It won't make the depression go away, but you'll find calm in a sense of relatability. 

I find my best writings are produced in the times when I'm not "in the best of spirits". Or maybe I should say, those writings are produced from thoughts I have in those times. Messy thoughts, that aren't usually organized, and very small in nature.

I find hope when I start sorting through those thoughts, giving them substance, and embellishing them with beauty.

Except, there are some thoughts that always remain messy, and it is those thoughts that beg for recurring attention every time my conscious sinks. 

Like a child, you adore but has decided it can't exist outside of your arms, and so he scratches at your ankles, pulls at your legs, your shirt, your neck, punches your nose and eyes, wanting you yet not really wanting you. Clingy they call it. It's horrible, because you love that child, but now all you want to do is hide from that child. 

Like when I allow myself to think of Outerspace and how it never ends. So it just keeps going ... and going ... and going ... and I try to imagine where that going is going and I follow it from every angle with my imagination until my brain explodes and I say, "Never look at the stars again. Never think of the place they hang from. Never."

Sometimes I wonder why more people don't care about the things I believe are important. Or, if they do care, why they don't make more of an effort to do something? Sentiment means nothing if it's muffled behind a pillow.

But then I remember, not everyone is called to do the same thing. 

And then my brain argues with that memory, but we all are called to do something. 

So why are so many doing nothing?

Believe it or not, sometimes I hate my thoughts. Sometimes I despise politics (actually, almost always). Sometimes I think the future looks so bleak and I don't understand how anyone can joke about LOTR memes when America might not even exist in fifty years.

Yes, sometimes I think America is fated to fall. During my generation.

This is why I try with all my might to speak what I believe to be true, to help be the cause of a change America desperately needs. Part of me thinks we're all doomed. But part of me also clings to hope just like babies tug at my skirts with loose waistbands.

Normally, these fears don't plague me. Unless I've lost hope in something else. And then all of the many, many fears of Outerspace and Earth pound at my brain, screaming at me, "You're doing no good. The world is full of jerks and stupid idiots who'd rather sleep until noon, and then break people's hearts until midnight."

Some people view life as a journey ... to death? To life? Toward love or knowledge?
Some people think of life as not a journey, but a discovery of self and the world around them.

Perhaps it's both? But more. A journey of discovering how to be honest: with the world around us, with those we love and hate, but mostly with ourselves. It's hard being honest, inwardly. Digging through all your pain and accepting why you are the way you are and what you gotta do to do anything at all.

But that path of honesty usually interweaves with brutal bitterness. So I think that's why it's important to never discover completely on our own and to remember life isn't just the journey, the discovery, or the honesty; it's also the love that pulls all the chaotic truth together in a shining rainbow.

Some people think life is also like a puzzle, and that we get only one piece at a time. And when we die you finally see it all. 

Sometimes I think we only see the shadows of the puzzle pieces. We never get to touch them or put them together. Only see faintly all that might be.

I wonder how people see me? 

Probably as a smiling robot. Or a naive know-it-all. Wasted potential. Judgemental. Fun, but also laughs too much. 

I am a smiling robot, that is true. 

I won't hardly cry even when I'm alone. 

I hate emotions. Tears are salty; how could anyone like crying? I hate not knowing what to do with myself or my dreams, or pretending that I love small talk and then being congratulated for being good at it. 

Sometimes I do cry. I'll let my tears fall when others cry, for their comfort. I'll cry when another person yells at me and I see no amount of intelligence will sway their irrationality. Maybe that's manipulation? I think it is. But it's manipulation against abuse and tyranny. 

I'll not cry for months. And then I'll cry because the baby won't stop pulling at me and wriggling every which way. And then I'll cry for days after because it wasn't really about the baby but something else entirely. 

There's a meme going around, "What would I share if  I was invited to speak on TedTalk?"

Do you have any guesses? 

It would be about identity and self-love. But not how most of the world perceives the two. It would have nothing to do with self, little do with "it's all in Christ", and everything to do with personal choices and God. 

I don't think I'd ever be invited to speak on TedTalk. 

They don't really want to hear that our identity is a plural factor, that it's not about us but how we live, and we are who we live to be. 

I always have a message to share. I'm never scared to share it ... though sometimes I feel inadequate. Sometimes I feel as if what I'm sharing will come off as preaching. 

So I'll say nothing. 

Or I'll say too much of something else. 

Or I'll just say it and be accused of preaching. 

Sometimes I don't want to write. 

Because then I'll have to preach. 

I hate preaching.  

Sometimes I feel as if I post on Facebook too much. 

Sometimes I feel guilty for not scrolling through others' Facebooks. 

Sometimes I wonder if I should just quit writing and let the world fall to pieces. Why should I love America? Why should I love the people that want to harm me and take away my rights to protect myself, to make money, and to simply live my life the way I wish away from drama? 

Why? 

Why can everyone see their puzzle pieces, and I can see the shadows of all of the puzzles, but there is no puzzle for my life? Or is there? 

Why does the world sleep when their ears can hear that all is not as it should be? Sleeping is not an excuse, because one can wake up. One can stand up and see. Their ears are still working; dreams are not so loud. 

Or are they? I never dream when I sleep. 

Why am I not real when I'm happy, but relatable when I'm falling apart? Why does everyone want to be me when life is perfect but runs away when life crumbles? 

Why do I not feel real, but as some observer of my body and of humanity? 

Why do I love humanity and hate them at the same time? 

Why do I trust nobody, and yet continue to give everybody a chance? 

Why do I see art in puzzle piece shadows? 

Why do these thoughts of Outerspace and Earth never have answers?