There's so much inside of me that wants to come out, all in different directions. Out my finger tips, down to my toes, across my chest, off the tip of my head, even in a quiet sneeze. When I attempt to write my art, my words get stuck in the passage from my brain to my throat- and there they remain. I've tried several different approaches now; I am stuck.
I'm better off screaming at this point.
Thanksgiving will be spent alone this year. I'm not so much phased by this event. Someone tried to talk to me about the importance of family. While the majority of my extended family has done a great deal to push me away, I have found that time spent alone is better than time spent with them. No, I taste no resentment. Some things have to happen in some ways that we can't explain in reason, but our eager acceptance is the affirmation. I wonder if people look at me and judge me as being barbaric. I've spent holidays with people I hardly know, with their families I've just met ("My mom goes to Los Angeles for the holidays, and I don't have a Dad. We don't need to talk about all that right now, Sir or Madame.")
Given my current situation and how it is affected by the upcoming holiday, co-workers I'm hardly acquainted with have made an honest gesture to invite me to their family gatherings. And I can feel their eyes burning me through their moving mouths: "Barbarian!" Being alone is important in establishing how to be in a relationship (should I isolate before I integrate?,) yet I find the loneliness as threatening to my boundaries. At this point, I'll cry to whoever will listen because I'm just that fragile. The tears are invading my ducts, waiting to surrender.
I'm better off screaming and running at this point.