Being the Eye of the Storm

ever feel like instability pinches you into being the stable one?

I am better at grieving than being.

I take it more seriously; I sober up entirely, I go to sleep like it is an item on my to-do list rather than an inevitability, I even take better care of my skin and crack into my mornings with more ferocity.

I do better with big change than just day-to-day existing. I suppose this goes for traveling as well; camping across the country or being abroad for clowning intensives always has me sharper than when I nestle into the crook of a city for a time with no clear end.

Perhaps it is endings that help me squeeze my present into the most
delicious
juice.

I am trying, though, to domesticate into the long-term. To find my best self within a home I get to make mine, within a town I do adore, within a sameness I chose to be my many years to come.

An aim dually inspired by the lack of freedoms that the lockdowns and mandates insisted upon me, as well as my devotion to building a family with Alan.

Perhaps it is these currently not-before-me inspirations that make this open-ending feel so
malaise.

However beautiful my dreams and goals of home life are, however much I want them, it never feels like I am thriving in the effort towards them.

When home, it feels like a quarter of me is on the floor, and I need to put a quarter of me into managing her, and that leaves a whole half of me relatively unhelpful towards any joyous growth or goal-achieving this way or that.

It’s exhausting to be this much in my way
unless spurred by grief or change.

And, probably so, because I keep fighting it.
I keep insisting that
I have to be different when
I simply am not.

I thrive in the bubbles of transition.

It is high time I figure out how to have it all.

A hui ho,

Julia