It isn’t self-deprecation, for it’s own sake, you know..
It isn’t out of some twisted desire to disparage myself, to self-flagellate at the risk of appearing both mad and martyr.
Not quite, anyway.
It isn’t that I subscribe to the lies that have made a home in my mind , the ones that remind me that I’m no artist, no storyteller, without purpose or place.
It isn’t that I no longer have belief. In myself, or in the way things work, or in how things ought to better. Or in how there is something, far, far greater, than this.
Not fully, anyway.
But, neither should I really bother convincing you, that how it seems with me, isn’t quite what you think. It actually matters little about how you perceive my beliefs to mean. Of myself and of this world. Or of God, even.
It shouldn’t, anyway.
I’m not asking for any saving, nor am I making a declaration of how far I’ve gone from any rescuing. I mean only to show the state of progress. And I’m far from both beginning, and end.
I’m suspended in the “getting there”. That wonderfully messy place of no real return. It is the place where the “not yet” and the “not now” have the rule of the day. It is the ride none of us wait in line for, and yet somehow, at some point, while we are young, we’re in.
Often I’ve said I’d rather fast forward through it all, this puzzling place of the mid-twenties, where uncertainty is the only norm, (and I’m still convinced that most of us are only pretending to know what we’re doing)
Better off that we don’t, I say. I’m not pretending with you, certainly trying hard not to.
But it isn’t so simple as, “it is what it is”. Not at all, in fact. I hate how ultimate and absolute that sounds, anyway.
Better if we say, perhaps, that “it is what it is, for now.”And for as much as I’m waiting for whatever is actually better, and praying it comes soon…
I’m coming to terms with this crazy idea that there is something refreshingly beautiful and honest about the revealing and unraveling of ourselves in the now, and most of all, in the broken.
And as unsettling and vulnerable as it often appears, I’d rather you know it now. That you know me, in this way.
I have much fear still, and doubt, and guilt, and worse, shame.
But what I no longer fear, is that you know.